


The Coercion of Hawkeye Pierce

by lastarael



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Korean War, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastarael/pseuds/lastarael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye must ask himself just how much he's willing to take to keep his secret safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fanfiction contains slash and nonconsensual sex. If you're too young to read this or if you feel that the contents of this story will bother you, now is a good time to hit the back button.
> 
> If you are a Firefly fan you may notice some Firefly-related "Easter eggs" scattered throughout this story. I hope that someone out there is half as amused by them as I was when I slipped them in.
> 
> Set in Hawkeye's POV.

It all started with a soldier.  A patient of mine.  Quite possibly the most beautiful man I've ever seen.  Brunette, chiseled jaw, finely sculpted muscles, extraordinary green eyes.  Sergeant Ross Reynolds.  A more fitting name would have been Adonis.

He had (fortunately for me) fallen into a foxhole and sprained an ankle.  He was (even more fortunately for me) homosexual and interested.  As a general rule I only had sex with women while in camp, and I'd never taken advantage of a patient before, but this sergeant was so stunningly handsome that a eunuch couldn't have passed him by.  Really.  I swear.

So I was shirtless and pinned against a shelf in the supply hut by this gorgeous infantryman.  His tongue was teaching mine new tricks – astonishing, I know – as his hands made short work of my belt and pants.  Meanwhile I delved below his clothing with one hand to map the smooth muscle of his back and side, the contour of his hip, and the curve of his ass, reveling in his sensuality as well as in the sheer size of the man.  (I enjoyed feeling delicate every once in a while.)  My other hand was beneath his shirt, pressed to the small of his back, both holding him close and providing support; he'd lost the crutches a couple of feet away and we hadn't yet made it to the cot.  I didn't feel like breaking off the kiss long enough to point out that I couldn't walk there with my pants around my boots.  The way his hands were dipping below the waist of my boxers made me think that those wouldn't be around my hips for much longer either.  My free hand was working its way toward the fly of his trousers when I heard the door open.

 _You are so fucked_ , my mind informed me helpfully.  And _this_ was why I didn't have sex with men in camp.  Some inconsiderate person fails to heed the hanger on the door and suddenly you find yourself on a plane home with a dishonorable discharge.  Unfortunately the safer, more remote locales that I'd desired for our little tryst – the minefield, for example – weren't easily accessible on crutches in the dark.  And we'd been impulsive.  So here we were.  Screwed.

I broke the kiss, panting for breath, and looked at the door to my left.  Before Reynolds had a chance to yank his hands out of my boxers there was a flash of bright light and an odd clicking noise.  I blinked frantically and when my vision cleared I saw Private Donner silhouetted in the doorway with a camera.  And that answered the question of who would come to the supply hut at 3 a.m.

I locked eyes with Reynolds for a split second and we silently shared a mutual panic.  Then he jerked away, abruptly untangling our limbs from each other's clothing, and hopped awkwardly over to the shelves I'd been pressed up against, his injured ankle carefully upraised in its brace.  By putting space between us he inadvertently showcased the very obvious erections tenting our fatigues.  I bent self-consciously to pull up my pants and retrieve his crutches, my mind going a mile a minute.

It absolutely horrified me that our futures were suddenly held in this kid's hands – or, more specifically, in the kid's camera.  And I do mean 'kid' – despite his impressive height the blonde corpsman hardly looked 18.

"Donner," I greeted him with caution as I fastened my pants and belt.  I was (I felt) exhibiting great restraint, holding my tongue until I could figure out how to best talk my way out of this fix.

"Hawkeye."  His voice was smooth and completely devoid of warmth.  "Good to see you."

"Well, I'd love to say the same," I told him with false cheer, "but you've caught me at a bad time."  And so much for holding my tongue.

"Is that so?" he replied mockingly.

"Yep.  You see, tonight was just the rehearsal.  The show doesn't open until tomorrow."  In my peripheral vision I saw Reynolds' head snap to me.  He was probably wondering what I thought I was doing.  Hell if I knew.  My mouth was on autopilot.  "You wouldn't mind too terribly coming back then, would you?" I finished snidely.  I waited a moment for Donner to respond to any of the words that had just tumbled out of my mouth, but he seemed content to stare at me with an inscrutable expression on his face.  "Ah, I see that you're the strong, silent type.  Like me."  No reaction whatsoever from the kid.  His intense gaze never wavered.  "Why don't we cut to the chase," I finally suggested.

"If that's what you want," he said apathetically.

"You know, I'd like that, yeah."

"Fine."  He pointed to Reynolds.  "You – scram.  I just want to deal with Hawkeye."

My Adonis shot me an apprehensive look.  "How you wanna play this?" he asked quietly in his Southern drawl.  "I can't exactly rush him, but I might could –"

"No," I interrupted him softly.  "I'll talk to him.  Head on back to Post-Op."  I raised my voice to a normal level.  "We're all adults here – I think –" I shot the fresh-faced Donner a dubious glance; Reynolds rapped me smartly on the boot with the tip of one crutch to remind me to behave.  "There's no need for violence."  These Army boys were always quick to come to blows.  I gave my sergeant a tiny (fake) smile and jerked my head minutely toward the door.

"I can't say I'm overly fond of this talkin' notion," he objected apprehensively.  "'Specially the part where I leave you high an' dry to deal with a problem that belongs to the both of us."

"Don't worry.  I can handle this," I assured him.  "My silver tongue can talk a nun out of her virginity in three seconds flat."

"That ain't a nun," he countered, jerking his head toward Donner.

"He wants to blackmail us; we have to be alive and fairly healthy to be able to pay," I reasoned.

"It's the ' _fairly_ healthy' part that's got me worryin'."

"Relax.  I'll work things out.  I promise."

"You know this snake?"

"Kind of."  _Not really_ , I amended silently.  I'd seen Donner around but our interactions were generally limited to him bearing patients to and from my operating table.  Not a lot of time for idle chat then.  I didn't even know his first name.

Reynolds apparently took my acquaintance with the boy as some sort of endorsement for his character.  "Alright," he murmured with a frown and a shake of his head.  "Good luck sweet talkin' him.  Get up with me when you're done; let me know if I should start plannin' a career change."  Adjusting his crutches, he visited upon me a soft look of concern and hopped out into the night.  Well, the early morning.

As soon as the door closed behind him Donner fixed me with his full attention.  He began to stalk forward with a grace that belied his rangy build.  His body language – that smooth prowl and the tautness reminiscent of a cat about to spring – finally helped me decipher that peculiar expression on his face.

It was predatory lust.  Alarm bells began sounding in my head.

"Did you know that the Army likes to give out dishonorable discharges to freaks like you?" he asked me impassively as he sauntered closer.

Why was he calling me a freak while looking at me _like that_?  My mouth turned into a remarkably accurate imitation of the Sahara Desert.

"Let me guess.  You're going to tell me what terms would cause you to come down with a case of selective amnesia," I predicted coolly.

Then he was within arm's reach.  "Something like that," he said quietly, gently setting the camera down on a nearby shelf.

I was eyeing said camera speculatively and waiting to hear his terms when his fist slammed into my jaw.  In short order the ground rushed up to hit me in the opposite jaw.  I've always heard the phrase 'I saw stars' but I think that that may have been downplaying it, because I didn't get a few measly spots of light; I got a 4th of July fireworks celebration.  Before my vision cleared Donner's hand had wrapped around my throat and started squeezing.  I struck blindly up at the offending arm but it must have been approximately the length of a Sherman tank because I wasn't coming into contact with anything more sensitive, like a face near the end of the arm.  It's pretty impressive when someone has arms longer than me, but I was feeling less than impressed all the same.  (Perhaps that would come later.)

Some part of my consciousness that wasn't concerned with things like breathing supplied:  _this is not how this conversation is supposed to go_.

Donner was squeezing tighter and my struggles were getting weaker when he suddenly released me.  _Go! Run!_ my mind ordered, but my body just lay there and wheezed.  I heard him talking over the rush of blood in my ears.

"Alright, Hawkeye," he said casually, as if he hadn't just been choking me.  He crouched in front of me to give me his conditions and I was reminded of a playground bully forcing his vanquished foe to eat sand.  "Here's what you're going to do:  You're going to stay put.  You're going to be a good pervert and you're not going to fight me.  If you do I'll make you regret it, you understand, and I'll still get what I want out of you.  And, you're not going to breathe a word of this to anyone or I'll blow the whistle on the depravity I just caught on film."

Part of me was surprised that the kid knew the word 'depravity,' part of me was indignant that he was applying the word to _me_ after _his_ behavior thus far, but most of me was a little terrified of what 'what I want out of you' entailed if the starter was a bruised trachea.  Unfortunately I couldn't disagree or negotiate better terms as breathing seemed to be the most I was capable of at the moment.

Donner efficiently rolled me onto my back and started loosening my belt.  I felt like I'd just had an ice water transfusion.

 _This is not happening_ , my brain insisted.

I put my hands on his and prepared to put up a struggle when the thought of a dishonorable discharge and its ramifications on my future stopped me.  It would get me out of Korea, sure, but it would also hound me throughout my civilian life; I wouldn't be able to practice medicine anywhere.  I was stung by the unfairness of the situation:  the Army pulled me away from my life back home, dropped me in a hell surpassing my worst nightmares, and would be happy to ruin said life over sex that wasn't hurting anyone and wasn't any of their damned business in the first place.

Internally cursing the circumstance I'd gotten myself into, I dropped my hands to the floor.  Donner roughly jerked my pants and boxers to my feet, then pried my boots off to strip me bare.  With a powerful tug he flipped me over onto my stomach.  He crouched on his knees beside me, trailing his hands over my skin as if I was his, until he was ready.  I shuddered but kept myself from trying to resist, gazing at the far wall of the hut with a thousand-yard stare.  I bit my lower lip until it bled and tried to focus on only the pain that I was inflicting on myself instead of what was being done to my body; it made me feel like I was in control of _something_ and helped me hold it together.

 _Not happening_.

He took me, then, on the wooden floor of the supply hut.  His fingers gripped my hips and sides like a vise, holding me in place.  I let out a low whimper and immediately regretted it; Donner groaned loudly in response.  I sank my teeth into my lip again, refusing to release another sound.  I'd never been very good at suffering in silence, but I was _not_ going to give the bastard the pleasure of hearing me cry out again.

 _Not happening_.

This wasn't exactly my first rodeo, but it had never _hurt_ this much before.  Not even the very first time.  Then again, I'd never had a man enter me so abruptly, fully, and violently with no real lubrication to speak of.  That probably had something to do with it.

 _Not happening_.

I screwed my eyes shut in mortification and tried to focus on how cool and soothing the supply hut floor felt against my throbbing jaw.  I was predictably unsuccessful in that venture.

 _Not happening_.

The most disturbing part, I thought, was the series of inappropriate bursts of pleasure that shook me when he hit my prostate.  I wondered if I'd ever be able to experience that sensation again without thinking of Donner.

 _Not happening_.

After a veritable ice age had passed he finished, stiffening before collapsing over my back with a groan, chest heaving and dripping sweat.  Relief washed over me.  It was over.  I'd made it through.

He slid out of me, stood, and wiped himself off on my shirt, the fink.  I shakily snared my boxers and pants and slipped into them but lacked the will to lift myself off the dirty floor.  I'd honestly have preferred to sink into the scarred wood if that had been possible.

Donner crouched by me and took my aching jaw in a bruising grip.  "There," he said.  "You got that fuck you were after from a _real_ man.  Not that pansy who walked out on you."

 _A real man_ , I scoffed silently at the teenager.  That was laughable.  For once in my life I wisely kept my mouth shut.

He slapped my face under the pretense of a friendly pat, grabbed his thrice-damned camera off the shelf, and turned to leave.  "That was fun," he said as he strolled to the door.  "Maybe we'll do this again sometime."  The door closed behind him.

 _No.  Hell no_.

I remained there for a long time.  Slowly my impotent anger and shame subsided and an alien numbness took over.  My legs curled up toward my chest of their own accord, my arms crossed themselves across my torso, and I hugged myself rigidly.  I lay on my side, cheek resting on the floor, and watched my exhales carve a path through the dust covering the wood.  My jaw throbbed.  My throat ached.  My rectum burned.  My body trembled.  My brain set sail for more peaceful waters.

I didn't move.  I think that in the back of my mind I was afraid that if I rejoined reality it wouldn't be as easy as whatever this escape was.  The fact that anyone could come in at any time and find me like that never registered in my stunned brain.

I remained there shivering in a slack fetal position for an eternity before the sound of choppers broke through my shock.

"Incoming wounded," the P.A. system announced.  "Come get today's greatest hits."

 _Of all the possible times for there to be wounded_....

I tried to lift my head, to uncurl my body and get up, but it seemed that the signal shorted out somewhere in my brain.  Part of me was shamefully content to lie there in the relative comfort of this detachment, and that part apparently had the majority vote.

I checked in with my body.  I felt the blood pulsing through my jugular and dazedly imagined that it beat in time with the sound of the choppers.  My chest felt weighted down and every breath was an effort.  My head swam and time drifted away without me again.

"Captain Pierce, please report to the O.R.," the P.A. system demanded some indefinite time later.

 _Pierce_.  That was me.  They were paging me.

I tried once again to get myself moving and finally made it upright.  My muscles, stiff from disuse, protested the action.  The sitting position brought the stinging sensation in my rectum back to the front of my mind and I tried unsuccessfully to find an angle that was less tender.  Upon failing that I reasoned that I was trying to get off the floor anyway and I might as well just go ahead and do that.  With a grunt I transitioned from sitting to kneeling to pull on my boots, then levered myself into a standing position.  The pain in my rectum alternated between stinging and burning but never faded completely no matter what I did.

I ran my fingers through my hair shakily.  I remembered to buckle my belt and grab the shirt that I was never wearing again (it didn't do to leave evidence lying around, after all) and was proud of myself for having a more level head in the face of... whatever this was.

I took a few deep breaths and opened the door, blinking at the light of a new day.  I'd entered with Reynolds in the wee hours of the morning.  The choppers must have come at dawn.

I left the supply hut behind and headed to the scrub room, hoping not to see anyone on the way.  I was in luck.  Everyone must have already been in surgery; the room was empty.  I tossed my soiled shirt into the laundry hamper and donned white scrubs and a mask.

As I scrubbed my hands I still couldn't shake the tremors.  I hoped no one would notice.  Hell, I hoped it wouldn't interfere with my operations.  Finally, with my sterile hands dried and held high, I backed into the O.R.

"Gloves please," I said quietly – and hoarsely – to the nearest nurse.  _Wow_.  Speaking felt like rubbing steel wool around in my throat.

I'd been trying to make a subtle entrance.  (I know – _me_?  _Subtle_?  Shocking.)  Unfortunately for me, Colonel Potter spotted me from his table.

"Pierce!  Where in tarnation have you been?!  (Retraction there, Gage.)  See me when we're finished here.  And it'd better be good," he said ominously.

And suddenly everyone was staring at me as Nurse Shari pulled on my gown and gloves.  At least I had a while to figure out my excuse.

"Yessir, O Captain! My Captain!" I trumpeted facetiously.  It felt like the words were clawing their way up through my trachea.

"That's _colonel_ to you, buster, and I advise you to stuff it!" he barked back at me.

I meekly shut my trap.  Never let it be said that I don't know when to shut up.  I might not _do it_ but I do know.  Usually.  Sometimes.  Well, maybe once in a blue moon.

"Are you sick?" Margaret asked as she came closer.

"Fit as a fiddle," I rasped.

That didn't stop her from coming up and feeling the temperature of my forehead.  Apparently I passed the test because she stepped away to oversee some other poor schmuck.

I positioned myself in front of a gurney and was presented with an injured soldier.

"Scalpel," I said quietly.  Shari slapped one into my hand.  I tried unsuccessfully to place the blade in the right location.  Oh yeah, the tremors were definitely going to be a problem.

"Doctor, you're _shaking_ ," Shari said.  Loudly.  Just in case I hadn't noticed.

 _Let's just notify the entire O.R._ , I thought bitterly.  As if on cue all of the surgeons and most of the nurses turned their eyes to me.

"Close for me please, Bigelow," I heard BJ say.

"Yes, doctor."

BJ came over to my table.  "What's up, Hawk?" he asked in an undertone.

"Nothing's up," I said brightly.  "Except the ceiling.  The sky.  The choppers –" that were bringing in more wounded that I couldn't keep my damn hands still enough to save.

"Then why are you shaking?"  His tone made it clear that he didn't believe a word I'd said.  BJ's no dupe.

"I don't know," I lied with the best innocent expression I could conjure up at the moment.  Maybe I should take a break ( _take a break?  You haven't even started yet!_ ) and dose myself with a very mild sedative.  That could work.  Then again, there was always the possibility that it would work _too_ well, and I wouldn't be able to operate.  Of course, I already couldn't operate.  It wasn't like it could get any worse.

With a decisive nod I handed the scalpel back to Shari.  "Beej, can you take over here?  I'll be back in a little while," I told them.  "Don't wait up!"

"Pierce!" Potter bellowed.  "Where in Sam Hill do you think you're going?"

"Fear not!" I called out, ignoring the pain in my throat.  "I shall return!"

I made my escape before he could order me to stay.  Granted, I might not have obeyed an order either, but ignoring it would have gotten me into even more hot water than I was already in.  Which was a considerable amount, certainly.

Cutting through the office I made my way to Post-Op, startling Nurse Able.

"Hawkeye!  What are you doing here?  Aren't you supposed to be in surgery?"

"I'm just stopping by.  Don't mind me."  I headed to the drug cabinet at the other end of the long ward.

Able was clearly taken aback but apparently trusted me to be doing whatever I was supposed to, the dear girl.

Reynolds sat up when he heard my name and I gave him a smile that was almost heartfelt as I passed.  Then I remembered that I had a mask on and sent him a little wave instead.  I needed to check in on him later to make sure Donner wasn't fucking with him.  Figuratively or literally.  Though I expected that he'd be pretty safe in Post-Op.

When I reached the cabinet I started rummaging around and quickly found what I was looking for:  Phenobarbital.  Grabbing a syringe, I pulled out 5mL, the equivalent of 20mg – a small dose.  I put the bottle away before Able thought to look at what I was taking.

Syringe in hand, I headed to the Swamp, where I dropped my pants and injected my thigh with the Phenobarbital.  Setting the syringe carefully by the still, I pulled my pants back up and tried not to think about when I'd done the same thing early that morning.  My skin crawled as I remembered how his hands felt roaming my body.

 _Why are you taking this so hard?_ I asked myself bitterly.  _It's not like you didn't allow it to happen.  And it's your own fault you were in that position in the first place.  If you could have just kept it in your pants_....

I had a seat on my cot to wait for the drug to take effect.  The pain in my rectum flared and I quickly decided that it might be prudent to lie on my side instead.  It seemed that sitting was not going to be incredibly fun anytime in the near future.

In less than a minute the sedative kicked in and not only did the tremors subside but an anxiety that I didn't even realize was present dissipated.  I felt much better.  I felt like the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders.  I could breathe.  And I knew I could perform surgery.

I rolled off the cot and headed back to the scrub room to wash up again.  I slunk into the O.R. as stealthily as possible but the old man was a sharp one.

"Pierce!  You are so deep in manure I don't think a Saint Bernard rescue dog could dig you out!"

"I knew I should have brought my shovel today," I said flippantly.

"You dig yourself any deeper and I'll have you digging latrines for the rest of the war!" he threatened.

"Shutting up, sir."

I let Margaret change my gown and pull on new gloves, then followed her to an empty table.  BJ was at my original table with Shari assisting.

Another wounded soldier was placed in front of me and I got to work.  My hands were sure and I was back to operating like nothing had happened.  Until a few hours later, that is, when Donner became one of the litter bearers.  _That_ threw me for a loop.  The first time I saw him I dropped the instrument I was holding _into_ my patient's mess of intestines and just barely stopped myself from bolting.  Margaret immediately fished it out and, oddly enough, her stern reprimand helped keep me grounded.  Still, the trembling was back (though not quite as noticeable) and I was feeling lightheaded (that can happen when you forget to breathe) and generally unnerved ( _that_ can happen when your violent assailant is three feet from you).  The butterflies in my stomach underwent mitosis; half stayed in my stomach while the new half migrated to my chest.  If I hadn't taken that sedative I'm not sure what kind of state I would have been in.  I certainly wouldn't have been fit to operate.

That nightmare operating theater lasted 18 hours.  I only really spoke to ask for instruments.  My heart wasn't in it, and it hurt my throat to talk anyway.  Every time Donner entered the O.R. my pulse would skyrocket and I was in danger of dropping whatever I might have been holding at the time.  I think I beat Frank in number of dropped implements that session.  Thankfully Donner was pulled off after several hours and replaced by a fresh corpsman.

Toward the end when Nurse Baker untied my mask to give me some orange juice she paused and said loudly, "Hawkeye!  What happened to your face?"

I realized then that my jaw must have been bruised up.  It was the first time I'd had my mask down in hours.

"And your throat!" she added in horror.

 _Wonderful_.  I'd apparently smuggled the bruising on my neck safely across the border until one nosy nurse saw my jaw.  And suddenly _everyone_ was looking.  Why couldn't nurses keep their big mouths shut?

"Thanks for that," I snapped.  "But you might want to repeat it a little bit louder.  I don't think the _North Koreans_ heard you."

Baker looked hurt.  "Sorry, doctor," she said in a subdued tone.  I would have felt bad if I hadn't been so angry.

"Forget the juice.  Bring me another patient."  I wanted her to get that mask back on my face pronto before everyone else had a chance to gawk.  If there was anyone left who hadn't seen it.

"Yes, doctor," she said sullenly.  Yep.  She was mad at me.  Well, she'd have to get in line.

We continued operating for a while longer and I could just feel the concerned looks BJ was sending to my back.  And I could _see_ the incensed looks Potter was sending to my front.

As we were finishing up the last patients the colonel gave me a reminder:  "Pierce.  My office."

"Your wish is my command!  Margaret, it's closing time.  Take care of this last customer for me, will you?"

I reluctantly joined Potter in the scrub room.  We washed up in an uncomfortable silence – well, _I_ was uncomfortable anyway – as he took stock of my face.  I knew he was waiting to get me alone in his office for the chat.  I personally wasn't feeling particularly talkative.  In fact, I felt how I imagined people lined up to be hanged felt in ye olden days.

BJ entered as I was stripping down to my boxers.  I reached for my shirt and pants and only found my pants.  _Oh yeah_.  I was about to pull the white scrub shirt back over my head when a hand touched my shoulder.  I couldn't help it; I flinched, hard.

"Hawk!" BJ said, pained.  "What's – What's all this?"  He gestured to my torso.

I looked down and was impressed by all of the little fingerprint-shaped bruises scattered over my sides.  It looked like someone had dipped the pads of each finger in paint – reds, blues, and every shade of purple in between – and gone to town on my body.

Except... that was bad.  I raised my eyes and found both BJ and Potter staring at my contusions.  Both the bruises on my sides and those apparently on my jaw and throat.

Colonel Potter leaned in, his eyes following the path of the fingerprints on my sides down to below my waistline.  "I wanted to wring your neck," he told me sternly, "but it looks like someone beat me to it."  He looked up at me before taking a finger and lowering my boxers down to my hips to see the bruises there.

At his touch I jerked so violently that I almost fell over.  For a moment all I could feel was Donner peeling off my pants and boxers on the floor of that damned supply hut.  I tried to focus on breathing once my burning lungs clued me in to the fact that I'd stopped.  Potter met my widened eyes with an enigmatic expression, then lowered the other side to find more bruises.  I twitched at his touch, but managed to restrain my reaction to just that.

Finally he concluded his impromptu examination.  "Do you have any more injuries?" he asked me.

 _Rectal trauma_ flashed through my mind and I thanked my lucky stars that it didn't pop out of my mouth.  I sometimes – occasionally – quite rarely, really – have trouble with keeping my mouth shut.

"Isn't this enough?" I joked weakly with a shake of my head.

"Get dressed and come to my office."

I felt like every time he said that the circumstances deteriorated further.  "I'll be there with bells on," I replied with a fake smile and a wriggling-fingered wave.

Colonel Potter exited with a final scowl and for a brief moment it was just me and BJ.  He opened his mouth to ask one of the thousand questions I'm sure he had when Frank came through the doors from the O.R.

I pulled on a clean white shirt and my green pants hurriedly, but Frank was in his own little world and probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd painted myself neon orange.

"You think you're so special, don't you Pier – oh.  Golly!  What happened to _you_?"

I could be wrong.  Those bruises must be something.

"The cook tried to wring my neck and add me to today's menu," I told him hoarsely.  "I told him that you'd be less gamey and probably wouldn't have such an objection to being served next to WWII surplus green beans, so I'd recommend being cautious for a while.  At least until he finds a new entrée du jour."

"It's beyond me how the Army in all its infinite wisdom selected such an undisciplined clown for service," Frank carped as he washed his hands.

"You know, I completely agree.  I'm right there with you," I commiserated before making a show of perking up.  "Well, as fun as this chat is – and let me tell you, I'm having a blast – I have a prior engagement."  I flashed a winning smile and exited stage left.

Still in his bloody scrubs, BJ followed me the short distance to Potter's office.

"Are you coming to watch the execution?" I asked him.

"I'll try to prevent the execution, but keep in mind there are very few golden opportunities to make a clean getaway.  Everything else is riding out in a blaze of glory, so pick your battles."

I grinned at him before we swept into Potter's office.

"You summoned, good sir?" I said when I walked through the door.

"Have a seat Pierce," Potter ordered.

I sat down painfully and ended up barely perching on the edge of the chair to keep the discomfort in my rectum to a minimum.  BJ parked himself in the chair beside me.

The colonel's eyes flicked to him.  "Hunnicutt, you have Post-Op duty.  Go do it."

"I'm just across the hall," BJ protested.  "If they have a problem they can come grab me."

"Skedaddle!"

BJ sent me a helpless look, then what might have been a silent 'good luck.'  I heard his sigh of frustration as he left the office.

"Okay son, spill."

I pursed my lips as I debated what to tell him.  Nothing I had come up with was both believable and safe.  Finally, since he was staring at me so expectantly, I decided to pretend he was an idiot.  "I fell down," I lied, not even trying to meet his eyes.

"Let me get this straight," he said flatly.  "The ground punched you in _both_ sides of your jaw, choked you, and wrapped a bunch of fingers around you all at the same time?  Really, Hawkeye, I expected more creativity than that from you."  He _did_ sound quite disappointed and I found myself wishing I'd been a little more ostentatious.

"I fell _up_?"

Crickets.

Potter didn't appear to be amused.  "Look son, if you're afraid of him – him? or them? – I can guarantee you they'll be court marshaled in a heartbeat, I'll send them away, and you'll never have to see them again."

Damn straight, I was afraid of him.  And didn't I wish it was that simple?  "I fell down," I reiterated obstinately.

Potter threatened grudgingly, "I could _order_ you to tell me."

"You could," I admitted with a challenging quirk of one eyebrow.  _But we both know that won't make a damn bit of difference_ , I didn't say.

He seemed to reach the same conclusion and tried a different tactic.  "I'd say you got more than beat up."

My heart stopped.  "What do you mean?" I asked carefully.  He couldn't have guessed anything from just bruises.  There was no way.

"Those bruises on your torso make me think you were held in place."

 _Shit_.  "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly feel like sticking around at the time."  That wasn't a lie.

He didn't look convinced.  "And that's all there is to it?"

"Of course.  What else could there have been?"  I really meant to say it in an innocent and/or ignorant manner but it came out more as a challenge.

"Did one attacker hold you still for the other to hit on?" he conjectured.

 _A swing and a miss_ , I noted with great relief and slight amusement.  "I fell down," I said inexorably, carefully keeping my face blank.  If he wanted to go off on this 'two attacker' theory I wasn't about to stop him.  It was a hell of a lot safer than the alternative.

Colonel Potter frowned at me with narrowed eyes but changed the subject.  "And this attack is why you were late to O.R.?"

 _Kind of_.  "Yes."

"Okay.  Now, I want to know why you felt you had to leave the O.R. with a wounded man in front of you."

I scowled.  "I couldn't hold a scalpel steady to save my life.  Or his."

"And where did you go when you left?"

"To the Swamp.  To calm down."

"Just to the Swamp."

He sounded like he was testing me.  I debated the benefits of lying over the possibility of being caught in the lie.

"Just to the Swamp," I lied.

"I have a very reliable nurse who told me that you went through Post-Op and grabbed something in a syringe out of the medicine cabinet."

 _Damn that Able_.  "Oh yeah," I said with extremely faked dawning recollection.  "Yeah, I did go through Post-Op."

"What did you get out of that cabinet?"

"Uh."  My mind raced with possibilities.  Finally the little angel on my shoulder won out over the devil on the other.  Well, that and the fact that he'd seemed to be pretty well-informed thus far.  (When did Able get a chance to snitch on me, anyway?)  I elected to go ahead and get the chewing out over and done with.  "Phenobarbital," I admitted quietly.

"Are you're telling me that you operated under the influence?!"  Oh, he sounded pissed.

 _And **that's** why I lied_.  "I only gave myself 20 milligrams!" I said defensively.

"What made you think it was alright for you to dope yourself?  Never mind operate while drugged!"

"I couldn't –" my throat closed and I swallowed convulsively before trying again.  "I couldn't operate _before_ I took it.  And it helped!  I... it helped."

"And you don't think being drugged affected your skill at all?"

"No, it just made me stop shaking.  Mostly stop shaking."

"What about your sloppiness tonight?  About all of the instruments you dropped?" he demanded.  "You're supposed to be _above_ Burns' level!"

"That wasn't the drug," I denied.  How come I was getting bitched at for not operating _above_ another surgeon's level?  Never mind that it was Frank.

"And just how do you know that?"

Because I knew what caused my sloppiness.  But if I said _that_ he'd be so very interested in hearing what it really was and there was no way I could tell him that it was because my attacker was in the O.R. with me.  If Donner got caught he would most certainly take me and Reynolds down with him.

"I just know," I told him defiantly.

"Well _I_ don't 'just know.'  I am _appalled_ that you would take a drug to perform surgery!  You're lucky you didn't kill someone!"

"So I was supposed to wait a few more hours to operate in the hopes that it would go away soon?!  While you were all stuck in the O.R. with no relief?!"

"Yes!" he shouted.  "That's _exactly_ what you should have done!  What kind of numskull thinks he can take a sedative to operate?!"

"How many of those kids that we operated on could have sat in the waiting room for a few more hours?!  Or more!"

"I _know_ I don't hear some young hot-shot surgeon telling me how to run my MASH when all I'm asking is for him to be _sober_!"

I swallowed my pride.  There was no way to come out on top in a shouting match with this C.O., no matter how reasonable I felt my actions were.  Sherman Potter was not Henry Blake.  "It – it won't happen again," I assured him quietly.  "I screwed up.  I'm sorry."

"It'd _better_ not happen again!"

"It won't," I mumbled resentfully.

"Good!  Now, go ice your jaw and get some rest."

"Right."  I tried not to let my frustration, bitterness, and defeat show in my voice but I'm not sure how successful I was.  Donner's gift just kept on giving.  I rose quickly and hit the door at speed, escaping into the Korean night.

It was about 1 a.m.  Or 0100.  Whichever.  After a miserable half hour spent tossing and turning in my cot, tormented by vivid memories that refused to let me rest, I gave up on sleep and decided to get so drunk that I could forget what had happened a little less than 22 hours prior.

So that's what I did.  Or tried to do.  Despite the fact that the liquor hitting my throat felt like swallowing fire (or what I imagined swallowing fire would feel like, as that was one life experience I'd had yet to enjoy) I made an admirable attempt at draining the still dry.  But no matter what I did, no matter how much gin I poured into my body, that memory would not fade.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning I was sick as a dog.  I made it to the bushes near the latrine before my stomach decided to expel all of the liquid left in it, including a good amount of bile.  The liquor didn't feel any better on my throat coming back up than it did going down, and the bile was an added bonus.  My head was pounding, I felt like something furry had crawled onto my tongue and died, the ground kept tilting while the sky kept whirling, and the sun's rays seemed to be stabbing into my eyes like vicious little needles.

And I still couldn't forget that thing that happened in the supply hut.

Once I'd relieved both my stomach and bladder of all their contents (the latter, thankfully, into the latrine), I made my way back to the Swamp to lie back down on my stomach with my pillow over my head.  It didn't block much noise and not all of the light, but it was better than nothing.

BJ was unconscious in the next cot and Frank was missing – presumably with Margaret or pulling Post-Op duty.  I'd forgotten the schedule, except that I was supposed to work that afternoon.

I lay on my cot for 20 unpleasant minutes, unable to get that incident out of my head.  Everything I thought of reminded me of him, or something he did, or something that I saw at the scene of the attack – and as the scene was the _supply_ hut, there were quite a few things reminding me of it in the Swamp alone.  And the more I thought of how he'd touched me, how he'd defiled me, the dirtier I felt.  I needed to get a shower.  I had to feel clean.

The only problem with that was that I was afraid to go alone to get a shower, as pathetic as that was.  I couldn't stand the thought of running into him.  What if he found me alone in the shower and... attacked me again?

No.  I needed backup.  I needed BJ.  I had to wait for him to wake up on his own though.  The previous day he'd been woken up by choppers at dawn (I assumed; we weren't the type to be awake before 6 a.m. on our own) to operate for 18 hours, then had to pull Post-Op duty.  I would be a horrible friend to wake him up to satisfy my own cowardly desires.

I decided that, since sleep wasn't coming back for round two, I might as well be drinking while I waited for BJ.  After all, there was no reason to stay sober for a shower, and I had plenty of time to recuperate before my shift.  So I started swilling our gin again despite my throat's insistent protests.  I was quite drunk by the time BJ woke up.  Unfortunately it wasn't the fun kind of drunk.

I was lying on my side staring ruminatively into the rapidly disappearing contents of my martini glass.  ( _Why isn't this letting me forget?  Or think about something else for a change?  Why am I making such a big deal out of it anyway?  Sure, it was unpleasant, but it's not like I didn't just lie there and let him do it.  I have no right to mope about something that I just **let** happen_.)  A tap on my arm made me drop the glass and half-jump, half-roll backward off the cot onto my already-painful ass.  Wide-eyed and heart racing, I looked up to a surprised BJ and tried to catch my breath.

"You okay?" he asked with concern.

"Yeah yeah," I said hoarsely, pulling myself back up to my cot and rubbing the butt cheek that I'd landed on.  "I've always enjoyed performing backward somersaults out of bed.  Trying out for the next Olympics, you know."  I picked up my spilled martini glass.  Thankfully it had landed on the cot, which had already smelled of alcohol for some strange reason, so there was no real loss there.

"Yeah....  Sorry for startling you.  You didn't reply and you looked like you were kind of in your own little not-so-fun world so I tried to get your attention."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks for the thought."  I gave him a fake smile, then changed the subject.  "How'd you sleep?  You're up early."

"Slept fine.  I got all of my worrying in during Post-Op when _you didn't come talk to me_ after Potter finished with you.  I _did_ hear you two shouting, though.  All of Post-Op did."

I winced.  "Sorry," I told him sheepishly, taking his elbow and aiming him at his side of the tent.  "Why don't I fill you in while we get a shower?  Well, whatever you didn't hear last night, that is."  Boy, was I ready to feel clean.

"Um, okay.  Sure."  He paused, then about-faced and fixed me with a mock glare.  "Wait a minute.  Are you trying to tell me I stink?"

" _You_?  _Stink_?"  I climbed off of my cot and rummaged around my corner of the Swamp for a towel.  "I would never –  Far be it –  Well now that you mention it...."

I happened upon a towel pretending to be clean and snatched it up for a sniff test.  Yep, that'd do.  Then I stripped down to my boxers, bathrobe, and boots.  I turned to check BJ's progress and found him still towel hunting.

"Didn't I loan you my towel a couple of days ago?" he wondered suspiciously.

"Oh no, uh-uh.  You're not sticking _me_ for your missing towel."  Just to be sure, I scanned my belongings.  _Oh, huh_.  There _was_ an extra towel over here.  "On second thought," I said, chagrined, as I snagged that towel and sniffed it.  I tossed the smellier towel in his direction with faith that he'd catch it.  Or that I'd get to watch it hit him in the face.  Nope, he caught it.

"What's that you were saying now?"

"How great a friend you are, that you'd let me borrow your towel," I said, nodding quickly.

"Uh huh."  He sounded less than convinced.

I saw that he still hadn't stripped down for the shower and picked up my martini glass for a refill.  Apparently BJ had seen something in my mannerisms or the way that I was moving that tipped him off as to my level of intoxication.

"Isn't it a little early in the day to be that drunk, Hawk?"

"Who's drunk?  I'm not drunk.  Are you drunk?"

"You're slurring and staggering."

"I am not," I said indignantly.  Character assassination, that's what that was.

"You were passed out with a martini glass in your hand when I came in this morning."

"Oh, was I?"  I aimed for innocent but may have fallen short of the mark.  Far short of the mark.

"Is this part of that thing you're going to tell me about in the shower?"

"Not really, no."

"What's going on, Hawk?"

"I suddenly need a reason for drinking?  This place stinks!  There, there's your reason."

"Well, you didn't lose a patient," he continued as if I hadn't replied.  "They were all doing fine when I handed them off to Frank this morning.  God help them _now_...."

I nodded my acknowledgement (a 'thanks for the update') with a wry smile.

"The only thing that's changed in the past two days is your body paint."  He gestured to my face and down to my hips.  "So I've got to think that your sudden need to be sloshed at all times, day and night, has to do with that."

Why did BJ have to be so damned observant?  I dropped my eyes to his pants and tried to postpone my torture.  "Can we discuss this in the shower?"

"Can we not discuss this _out_ of the shower?"

Time to employ some tactical bullshitting.  " _I'm_ going to get a shower.  You're welcome to join me."  I grabbed my towel and made for the door.  Somewhat slowly.  If my ploy didn't work I'd be up the creek without a paddle.  Or maybe just ignominiously returning and admitting that I needed him, but it still wouldn't be pleasant.

"Alright, fine.  Wait up."  He chucked his pants and shirt, donned his bathrobe, and snagged the towel I'd tossed him.

We walked to the shower in pensive silence.  I was too busy being anxious to have an intelligent conversation.  He seemed to be too busy thinking.  Once there I was relieved to find that the corpsman who was showering was not Donner.

"I'm just finishing up," Washburn told us.

BJ looked at me.  I gestured to the empty stall with an, "After you."  Might as well let him start shaving.  I'd elected to forgo shaving that day – an unheard of occurrence for me, to be sure – in favor of not dragging a blade repeatedly over my tender face and throat.  I hoped that a little stubble would mask what must have been a large bruise on my neck.  That reminded me:  I really needed to check the mirror when we got back to the Swamp.

  BJ slung his towel and robe on a hook and stepped out of his boxers and boots.  Taking his place in the free stall, he brushed on his shaving cream and got to work.

The corpsman, true to his word, got out and toweled off.  He dressed, sent us a farewell nod, and exited the tent.

Now that there would be no witnesses that hadn't already seen the bruises on my body, I stripped and kicked off my boots.  The bathrobe I hung up.  The boxers I dropped to the ground.  It was the same pair I'd been wearing when _he_... anyway, I thought I might burn them.  Unclothed, I stepped into the free stall.  Upon grabbing a bar of soap from the shelf I proceeded to give myself the most thorough shower I'd ever had in Korea.

"So," BJ prompted, with a grim glance at my torso.

"So."  I didn't bite.

"You were going to tell me how you got all of those bruises."

I focused on scrubbing at least one layer of skin off every inch of my body.  Anything that Donner could possibly have touched had to go.

"No, I said I'd fill you in.  My conversation with Colonel Potter mainly consisted of me getting yelled at.  Which you heard."  I paused, then cringed at the next thought passing through my brain.  "Uh, did you hear the words by any chance?"  I really, really hoped no one had.

"No, just raised voices," BJ said with cautious amusement.  "The patients were taking bets on the winner."

"How'd I do?" I asked curiously.

"Five to one, Potter."

"Ah, well."  Couldn't win them all.  I wondered idly if Reynolds had bet on me.

"So what was he shouting at you about?"

"Oh, just for being late and operating under Frank's level," I fudged casually.

"He was yelling at you for something that was a direct result of you getting beaten up?"  BJ sounded skeptical.

For some reason I was leery of acknowledging the idea that I'd been beaten.  It felt too close to admitting what else had happened, I supposed.  I decided it would be best to stick with the same lie I told Potter.  Simpler to remember that way.

"I fell down."

"You –  Are you serious?!  _That_ 's your story?!"

" _I_ think it's a good story.  It has tradition behind it," I explained haughtily.

"Tradition."  He rolled the word over his tongue as if tasting it.  "Right.  Was there a staircase involved in your version?" he asked with feigned disinterest.

"Now that you mention it, there _was_.  That flight off the mess tent.  They always say that first step's a doozy, but I didn't believe them until I took the plunge myself."

He gave up the charade.  "Who hit you?"

"Like I said," I told him stubbornly.  "I fell."

"Okay.  Who _choked_ you?"

Another corpsman opened the shower door at that moment.  Hallelujah.

"We just got here," BJ lied quickly.  "Sorry."

"Alright," Cobb drawled, deciding (as BJ had intended) to come back later.

"So," my friend said as soon as the door closed.  "You were going to tell me who choked you."

"Actually, I wasn't," I said apologetically.  "Sorry."

"Why not?" he asked indignantly.

"It's none of your business, for one thing."

"You tell me stuff that's none of my business all the time," he objected.

"Well this isn't going to be one of those times!" I said firmly.

"What are the other things?"

I didn't follow the leap of logic he'd just taken.  "What?"

"You said 'for one thing.'"

"Oh.  Uh."  _Because I'm being blackmailed, and he'll ruin my life if I tell anyone_.  "I think 'it's none of your business' is sufficient."

"I don't," BJ protested shortly.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said mildly.

"What'd you tell Colonel Potter?" he asked suspiciously.

"That I fell down."

"And what'd he say?"

"That I should watch that first step next time," I deadpanned.

"Uh huh."

With a small shake of his head BJ closed his eyes and put his head under the spray to rinse his hair.  I quickly devoted my attentions to scrubbing frantically between my butt cheeks.

"Fine," he eventually said, clearly irritated that the answers he desired weren't forthcoming.  "What were you doing up so early, anyway?"

This was dangerous territory.  "Call of nature," I replied blandly.  It wasn't my fault if he assumed that I meant needing to use the latrine rather than absconding for a tryst with another man.

He changed tracks with an abruptness that gave me whiplash.  "Where'd you go when you left the O.R.?"

_Why does everyone keep asking me that?_   It felt more like an inquisition than a shower.  "Back to the Swamp to stop shaking."

"And you were shaking because you'd just been assaulted."

"Um."

"By the ground," he half-amended, humoring me.

"Right.  Yep."  This was worse than beating a dead horse.  At least the horse doesn't care at that point.

BJ snorted in disbelief but moved on.  "How'd you stop shaking?"

"I lay down and relaxed for a little bit."  _And had some_ _Phenobarbital_ , I added silently.  After Potter's reaction there was no way I'd volunteer that information.  It really shouldn't have been that big of a deal though.  I'd only used a small dose, after all.  The colonel had grossly overreacted.

"Not for long," he noted.

"I felt better pretty soon after I got to my cot," I told him honestly.

"Mmm."  Apparently BJ had run out of questions and was reduced to grunts worthy of our Paleolithic forbearers.  That was fine by me.  He could grunt all day long as far as I cared if it meant the questioning was over.

I enjoyed several more minutes of peace before I felt clean enough to conclude the shower, even going so far as to welcome BJ's off-key humming when it began.  After all, it was hard to hum and carry out an interrogation at the same time.  Usually I would have joined him but between my subdued overall mood and my painful throat I elected to let BJ hog the spotlight for that shower.

I poured myself a martini as soon as we got back to the Swamp.

"Are you having a liquid lunch today or do you want to accompany me to the mess tent?" BJ asked mildly as we got dressed.

I pulled on clean(ish) bottoms and decided on my blue Hawaiian shirt in hopes that the higher collar would obscure at least part of the handprint on my neck.  Speaking of which....

"Lunch sounds fine," I said docilely as I crossed the two feet to the mirror.

My eyes widened when I saw my reflection and I decided that maybe everyone's reactions were justified.  I looked like death warmed over.  Both sides of my jaw were covered in loud, vivid bruises that ranged from dark reds to rich purples to bright blues.  But the kicker was the very obvious fuchsia-colored handprint wrapping around my neck, complete with tiny slivers of unmarred skin separating some of the fingers.  Even if I was someone who routinely got into bar fights, that handprint would stand out.  It said:  'Someone very nearly choked the life out of me and my sole achievement was not dying.'  Well, at least that's what _I_ felt like it said.   Though perhaps I should attach an addendum about my trachea not collapsing.  That was something, at least.  Good job, trachea.  Shitty job, well, everything else.

"Hawk.  Hello?  Hawkeye!"

I blinked at BJ for a moment, jarred from my thoughts.

"You ready?" he asked a tad impatiently for what was probably not the first time.

"Yep," I said, draining the last of the alcohol from my glass and following him with some trepidation.

The dining hall was busy and I stopped just inside the door to scan every face, afraid to find Donner looking back at me.  BJ, ahead of me, pulled up short with a surprised expression followed by one of dawning comprehension.  The crowd was thick but I was relieved to see that Donner was absent.

Unfortunately once one person began staring at my bruised face and throat everyone else followed in short order.  Soon the tent was nearly silent with almost every eye on me.  This wasn't the first time this had happened, but last time I'd been naked and had somehow felt less conspicuous.  My face grew hot as BJ and I walked through the tent and grabbed our trays.  It was an effort to keep my head up and eyes forward – both kept seeking the ground.  It wouldn't do to show them that I had something to be ashamed of.

I waved my tray in front of Igor's face to interrupt his stare which was aimed squarely at my neck.  "Hellooo, anybody in there?  Care to return to Earth and serve these poor starving mortals before they waste away?  If you do so I do solemnly swear that – for today only, it's a limited time offer – I won't start any riots even if the main course _is_ liver or fish.  Or even liver _and_ fish.  There it is, take it or leave it."

Igor blinked several times and dipped his head apologetically – "Sorry, sir!" – then started to ladle hazardous waste onto my tray.  Like that, the mess tent's spell was broken and conversation resumed.  Regrettably I suspected that a good bit of it was about me.  Even BJ was looking at me quizzically, probably for the riot comment near the end.  He wasn't here for the Adam's Ribs caper.

I loaded up on a little bit of everything but was too listless to bother asking what any of it was – nothing ever remotely looked or smelled like what was supposedly being served anyway, so what was the point?  Might as well just smell it myself, come up with lovely descriptions, and put all my friends off their food.  Besides, I wasn't sure what I'd be able to eat with my jaw and throat in the condition they were in.

With BJ in tow I headed for a spot next to Colonel Potter, Radar, and Father Mulcahy.

"Oh my!" the priest said reverently as I set my tray down.  "Are you okay, Hawkeye?"

"I'm fine, Padre.  Thanks."  That was probably belied by the hoarseness of my voice and the wince that crossed my face upon sitting.

After squirming a bit to find a more comfortable position on the board masquerading as a seat I started picking at the so-called food on my plate.  Spearing something green, I gave it the Sniff Test.  Verdict:  no way in Hell.  I tried something soft and yellowish.  It hurt my jaw going in and my throat going down.  And that had been the softest thing on my plate!  I decided that, from that point on, something would have to smell incredibly tasty to warrant trying to chew or swallow it.  I might go hungry for the rest of the war.

For lack of something to eat I tuned into the conversation around me.

"Then Trapper and Colonel Blake had to pick Hawkeye up and _carry him_ away from the ribs.  And the whole way he was begging for 'just one little riblet,'" Radar finished with a laugh.  "They like to never heard the end of that during surgery."

"You are a pistol, aren't you son?" Colonel Potter said to me with a grin.

I gave him a tight smile in return.

Margaret arrived and had a seat on the opposite side of the table.  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Just dandy," I lied, putting as much enthusiasm as humanly possible into the two words.  From the looks on everyone's faces I deduced that I may have oversold it.

"Why don't I believe that?" she asked rhetorically.

"Probably because you weren't born yesterday," BJ ventured.

Margaret ignored BJ and cut right to the chase.  "So what happened?" she asked me, gesturing to my face (in case I'd somehow forgotten my bruises) and leaning in like I was about to divulge some huge secret.

Everyone eyed me speculatively.  I decided to go with ostentatious this time.  I leaned in too, looking around as if to make sure no one was listening in.  My audience followed suit.

"Well, I was over at Rosie's the other day and she decided she wanted to call in my tab.  Wouldn't serve me one more drink without seeing cash.  This is despite my upstanding reputation and all the business I've given her, of course."

Father Mulcahy, bless his heart, quietly murmured, "of course."  I felt like a priest leading a congregation rather than vice versa.

"But it wasn't payday for another week, you see," I continued, "and I didn't have $46.79 on me."  At least two members of my audience looked scandalized by the price of my fictional tab.  "So I tried to walk out after explaining this to her in an honest and courteous fashion, and would you believe that that tiny little lady pulled back her arm and socked me in the jaw so hard I was knocked off my feet!"  I punctuated the end of the tale with a punch into my open hand.

BJ couldn't keep himself from laughing at my delivery; Margaret chuckled with a roll of her eyes.

"No, I wouldn't believe that, actually," she told me blandly.

Klinger approached with his tray and before he even sat down he was asking, "Hawkeye!  What on earth happened to your face?"

I smiled mischievously up at him, formulating a new story to pacify (and amuse) the masses.  But when I spotted an all-too-familiar blonde head over his shoulder all rational thought left my brain.  Donner was going through the line looking as innocent as the day he was born, the son of a bitch.  My smile disappeared instantly and I felt alarm dominate my features.

"Hawkeye!" I heard Father Mulcahy exclaim.  "Are you quite alright?  You look rather pale."

"Was it something I said?" Klinger asked, confused.

I wrenched my face to my plate to avoid incriminating Donner and tried to focus on breathing and remaining upright and seated.  Unfortunately the only thing going through my mind right then was _run run run run run_ and my flight instinct soon overrode common sense.  I found myself standing abruptly, painfully knocking my bruised hips into the table and rattling it, then staggering out of the tent on shaky legs.

I knew that people were talking to me – I'd heard quite a few "Hawkeye!"s and "Are you okay?"s – but that was background noise to the chorus of _run run run run_ shouting in my head.

I jogged unsteadily to the Swamp – for some reason I felt like that was the only safe place in camp – and curled up in my cot.  Lying on my side, I clutched my arms and ignored the discomfort that the loose fetal position caused my rectum.  I tried to focus on breathing deeply and slowly.  My cot rattled audibly from my tremors.

_I could really use that Phenobarbital_ _right about now_ , I thought desperately.  That stuff had cut the anxiety, stopped the shaking, and generally made me feel much better all at the same time.

I heard the tent door open and close.  I knew that it had to be BJ but still had to jerk my head toward the door to confirm that.  Of course Donner wouldn't follow me into my own tent in broad daylight; my paranoia was overruling my common sense.  It seemed that everything was doing that recently.

"Hawk?" BJ said cautiously.

I didn't know what to say to him.  I knew I should be embarrassed but right then all I could feel was panic.  I tried for nonchalance.  As if I wasn't curled up in a ball in my bed like a little kid.

"Yo," I replied quietly.

"What's going on Hawk?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I said dully.  "I'm fine."

"Will you _please_ stop pretending that I'm an imbecile?  It's not nearly as effective as you seem to think."

I almost smiled at him for that one.

"You saw the guy who hurt you in the mess tent, didn't you?"

And there died that smile-that-could-have-been.

I mulled it over and decided that some honesty might finally be in order.  It wasn't like he didn't know that _someone_ attacked me.  It certainly wasn't the ground.  And half the camp had been in the mess tent, so it would be impossible for them to identify him that way.  "Yeah, I did."

"Are you okay?"

"I will be.  I just need time."  And maybe some alcohol.  Or a sedative.  I was flexible.

"Can I help?"

"No, I'm fine.  Thanks."  I was not, in fact, 'fine.'  My breathing was labored, my pulse was through the roof, and I was still shaking violently.  BJ couldn't have missed the quaver of my voice but he obviously deduced – correctly – that I wasn't going to be opening up to him at the time and let it slide.

Thankfully left alone to my own devices, I eyed the still speculatively.  Once I thought about it I could see that alcohol wasn't exactly giving me peace or helping me forget or even temporarily taking my mind off of that thing that happened.

What I really wanted was another dose of Phenobarbital.  But I couldn't be seen grabbing it from Post-Op where it could get back to Potter.  I sure as hell wasn't going back to the supply hut anytime soon, especially not when I was mid-meltdown.  I could probably get a dose from the pharmacy though.  Actually, I could take an entire bottle from there.  It would get restocked without me having to go into the supply hut myself.  And I wouldn't have to worry about sneaking a dose from Post-Op if this happened again.

It was harmless, really.  It was a low dose and it calmed my nerves and stopped my shakes.  Hell, I could even operate on that dose regardless of what Potter thought.  Better than shaking so hard I could hardly hold an instrument.  The only reason I was sloppy in the O.R. during that session was because of Donner.  And I really didn't know what to do to solve _that_ problem.

But for this problem I just needed to ditch BJ.  I didn't want any witnesses if I was going to abscond with an entire bottle.  Granted, it would only be temporary.  I'd return it once I didn't need it anymore.  But I still didn't want it getting back to Potter.  I'd been chewed out enough already, thank you very much.

I uncurled myself and shakily got to my feet, grabbing my bathrobe.  BJ looked up from his position on his cot where he seemed to be simultaneously giving me time and keeping an eye on me.

"I've got to run to the latrine," I told him, trusting that that would be enough to keep him from following me.

"Have fun," he said with a wave.  "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I couldn't bring myself to smile.  I set out for the latrine before doubling back and meandering through the hospital, attempting to look like I wasn't about to fly apart at the least little stressor.  The pharmacy was blessedly empty and I presumed that the tech was out to lunch.  I stuffed several syringes into a pocket of my bathrobe – I'd brought the robe because it had more storage space than just my pants pockets – and grabbed the Phenobarbital off the shelf.  Quickly measuring out 5mL, I pulled my pants down partway and injected the drug into my thigh with shaking hands.  Redressing hastily, I dropped the bottle into another pocket of my robe and disposed of the used syringe.

Mission complete, I made my way back to the Swamp.  By the time I'd arrived I felt almost completely recovered.  I carefully laid the robe down on my cot in a way that didn't showcase the contents of its pockets.

"Took you long enough," BJ said suspiciously.

"You can't rush genius," I retorted, affecting a false sense of smugness.

"Yeah... I hate to break it to you Hawk, but your shit is _not_ genius."

"Let's agree to disagree."

"Mmm."  Then:  "Oh, I meant to ask you this morning... what's this?"  He held up the syringe I'd used the day before.

How could I have been so _careless_?  "It's a syringe," I said blandly, wearing a remarkable poker face.

"What's it doing beside the still?"

Hmm.  "Good question.  Why don't you ask it?"

"Hawk.  Seriously.  Why is there a syringe by the still?"

I chewed my lip, thought it over, and eventually decided to come clean.  "I used a sedative yesterday so I could operate."

BJ sat in shocked silence for a moment.  "You drugged yourself and _operated_?"

"I couldn't stop shaking long enough to make an incision!  What was I supposed to do?"

"You told me you came back here and relaxed!  Why didn't you give it time?!"

"I gave it _hours_ ," I snapped exasperatedly.  "It wasn't stopping, and it was interfering with my job."

" _Hours_?  I thought you said you had just been attacked."

"Well.  'Just' is a misleading word.  I hadn't exactly _just_ been attacked.  It – I was, uh.  Recovering poorly."

"What do you mean?"  His tone was gentler.

"I mean, it took me a while to pull myself together," I said softly, closely examining my filthy boots.

He was quiet for a while, lost in thought.

"So that's what Potter was yelling at you about?" he speculated eventually.  "The sedative?"

"Yeah.  He was... less than thrilled."

"I bet."

At least BJ wasn't shouting at me or calling me a numskull.

He fell silent for another moment then took a big breath in.  "Hawk, why are there fingerprint-shaped bruises all over your sides and hips?"

I frowned.  We were back to this.  "Didn't you hear?  Rosie attacked me."

"I'm serious."

"I fell down."

"Hawk!" he exclaimed in frustration.  "Why won't you talk to me?  Let me _help_ you!"

"I'm sorry," I said immovably.  "I can't."

"Can't, or won't?" he demanded.

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

I scowled.  "Both," I admitted softly.  Even if I could I wouldn't tell BJ what Donner had done to me or why.  No one could ever know that.

Hurt joined the sadness and frustration in his face.  I cowardly turned my head so I didn't have to see it.

_At least you're not still shaking_ , I consoled myself.  I no longer wanted to cower under my cot like a frightened child hiding from the boogeyman.  That was a definite improvement.

Never mind that my best friend probably thought less of me.  And he didn't even know what I was hiding.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey," I said softly to Reynolds as I sidled up to his bed in Post-Op.

The handsome GI looked up at me and convulsively tightened his grip on the book he'd been reading, clenching its cover carelessly in his large hands.  "Hawkeye!  What the hell?!"

I shushed him discretely.  "Mind going for a walk, _Sergeant_?"

As I'd intended he sobered at my use of his rank, looking around the ward as if he'd forgotten anyone else existed and was shocked to suddenly find people surrounding him.  "Yeah, sure," he said, subdued.  He stood and gathered his crutches while I grabbed the navy bathrobe the Army had issued him, a twin to my red robe (if a bit less worn).  Together we looked quite the patriotic pair.

"It's a little chilly out," I told him, offering the robe to him.

He froze, clearly torn on what to do with his crutches.  I grinned, half expecting wisps of steam to come shooting out of his sexy ears – yes, I have a thing for ears – as I watched him work out the logistics.  Taking pity on him, I held one crutch for him while he shoved an arm into his robe, then helped him switch a crutch to the other side to repeat the process.  I had to grab him by the elbow once to stop him from toppling over, digging my heels in to keep from being dragged along for the ride by his considerable bulk.  As I'd discovered the other night in the supply hut, the man wasn't the most coordinated person on the planet.  Which was probably how he wound up at the 4077 in the first place, come to think of it.  He looked slightly flustered and mildly embarrassed until his eyes hit my face again.  Then he just looked pissed.

"Bigelow, I'm stealing Sergeant Reynolds," I called to give her a heads up.  Nurses were funny about wanting to know things like where their patients might be.

"Don't stay out all night partying," she teased.

"Don't worry.  I already told his daddy I'd have him back before midnight."

The nurse laughed, unfazed.

Reynolds met my gaze with wide eyes and I winked at him.  I handed his crutch back and once he was settled we meandered toward the door.  Before we made it outside, though, I stopped short and about-faced.  He gave me a puzzled look when I began leading him into the rest of the hospital instead of out of it.  We cut through Radar's office, exchanging greetings with the clerk, and ended up in the exam room.  It was the most private area I could think of that was easily accessible on crutches.

The gorgeous sergeant scanned the small room perfunctorily before turning his stunning eyes back on me.  "You alright?" he asked with a concerned scowl as soon as the door swung closed.  "You look like ten miles of bad road."

I patted the exam table and he obediently hopped over to sit on it.  "Yeah," I said wearily.  "I can honestly say I didn't see that coming."

Instead of saying 'I told you so,' he reached out and snagged me by the wrist.  I jerked like I'd been shot and he loosened his grip in surprise but didn't release me altogether.  After a moment of forcing myself to take deep breaths I was able to relax.  When the stiffness had gone out of my arm he tentatively reeled me in.  I stepped into his arms and snuggled my face into the crook of his neck.  I knew that we shouldn't stay like that and risk being caught, but all I could focus on was how damn good it felt to be held.  Before I knew it there were hot tears trickling down my nose to dampen the collar of his shirt.  I was embarrassed to be crying on my crush's robe but Reynolds took it in stride.  His hands rubbed my back soothingly and he whispered words of comfort in that endearing Southern accent of his.  When I'd stopped sniffling I straightened and he released me with a soft kiss to my forehead.  I stroked his hair before trailing my hand down his arm.  We entwined our fingers, his giant hand enveloping mine.

"You're shakin'," he said softly.

"Yeah," I acknowledged apologetically.  "I think I'm off close-contact sports for a little while."

He regarded me with a pained expression but not revulsion.  Maybe he didn't realize the extent of Donner's actions the other night.

"I shoulda laid that sorry piece of shit out straightaways," he stated emphatically.  "Then we coulda got the camera and threatened to wallop him good if he even thought of finkin'."

I gave him a wry smile.  "You know, _now_ that doesn't sound like such a bad plan," I admitted.  "He hasn't been by to see you, has he?"

"No."  Reynolds narrowed his eyes.  "And he really don't want to," he rumbled threateningly.

I was glad to not be the recipient of that ire.  With his large frame he would be quite intimidating if provoked.  I patted his arm pacifyingly.

"Maybe he doesn't know who you are then.  Maybe he doesn't care.  Either way, don't draw any attention to this.  I want you to forget you ever heard his name."

"I aim to make _him_ forget he ever heard his name," he growled.

"Ross, you do that and he blows the whistle on us.  That's a dishonorable discharge.  That's the end of our lives as we know it."

Reynolds fumed.  "I'm supposed to just let him get away with hurtin' you?!" he objected quietly but vehemently.

"Yes!  I don't see any other option!"

"You do go on," he scoffed.  I deduced that that must translate into something along the lines of 'you must be joking.'  "Myself, I like the 'beat on him 'til he gives up that picture' option."

I gave him a lopsided grin, shaking my head.  "We'll wind up court martialed and possibly imprisoned."

He heaved a frustrated sigh and chewed on his lip.  "This's right fucked up."

"You can say that again," I told him with feeling.

"This's right fucked up," he repeated mischievously.  We traded crooked smiles.  "I'm sorry, sugar," he added somberly after a thoughtful minute, bringing his beautiful eyes up to meet mine.

I nodded in agreement.  "I'm sorry too," I replied quietly.  Boy, was I ever.  I tenderly squeezed his hand.

We were silent for a moment.  I was enjoying his company and trying not to ruin this moment of solace with dark thoughts; he was pensively mapping my bruised face.

Eventually he asked, "So what was Donner after?"

My eyes found the floor.  "I guess he just wanted to... to hurt someone without consequences."

He ran a hand very lightly over my bruised jaw.  I twitched minutely before my eyes closed involuntarily in bliss at his gentle touch; it felt good to be cared for by this man.  When I opened them he pinned me with his sharp gaze.  "I find that a mite curious," he said frankly.

"You're telling me."

He narrowed his eyes at me.  "What else did he want?"

"Nothing," I said defensively.  "I told you."

"Don't assume just 'cause I talk slow that I'm stupid," he retorted in frustration.

"I'm not," I assured him, stroking his face from his temple along his jaw to his chin with my free hand to soothe him.

"I have an equal stake in this," he insisted.  "I'll pay my part."

I felt relieved.  He thought this was some sort of ploy for financial gain on Donner's part.  "He didn't want money," I told him honestly.  "He was just a teenager on a power high trying to see how far he could take it."  _Consensus was:  too far_.

Reynolds frowned but accepted my words at face value.  "An' now?" he asked softly.

"I don't know.  I guess if we keep our mouths shut he will too."

"Mmm."  He was obviously unsatisfied with that plan.  I got the impression that he wasn't the type of man who accepted being take advantage of or threatened without some form of retaliation.  Being rendered powerless did not sit well with him.  "You'll tell me if he tries to pull this stunt again, right?"

"It won't happen again," I assured him.  Donner's smug words ran through my mind:  'Maybe we'll do this again sometime.'

"Mmm," the sergeant repeated, unconvinced.  "But if it does...."

I looked him straight in the eye.  "It won't."  I had to believe that.  Had to.

"Nuh-uh," he said firmly.  "The right answer here is:  'I'll tell you so you can come whup his ass.'"

I chuckled.  "Sure," I lied.  "What you said."

He still looked doubtful but let it go.  "So's that what you were hollerin' with the old man about?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, you heard that," I said self-consciously.

"Darlin', the people at the 806 _3 rd's_ recovery ward heard that."

I smiled, more from his adorable endearment and his captivating grin and his intense green eyes than from the idea that Potter and I could have charged admission to our fight.

I heard the door open and, instead of dropping my sergeant's hand and jumping away guiltily, I disentangled our fingers and tightened my grip on his palm.  "Your hand looks fine," I said as if reassuring him.  "Let me know if it keeps bothering you."  I released it then and turned more toward the door.  "Oh, hey Beej."

BJ's eyes met mine and narrowed suspiciously.  I wasn't sure if it was because he detected something off in our behavior – I wasn't watching Reynolds and could only hope he was playing along – or if my eyes were red from crying.

"Hey."  His voice wasn't giving much away.  He dug around in a drawer and produced forceps.  "Radar's skunk has a splinter in its tiny little paw," he explained.  "I volunteered you for the job but he said you were with a patient."

_Whew.  Dodged that bullet_.  I sent Reynolds a bright smile.  "I knew I dragged you along for something," I teased.  Then I switched tracks.  "And BJ, if that thing sprays you you are _not_ to come back to the Swamp.  I will throw you a flask of gin from the opposite side of camp and you can sleep by the trash dump for a couple of days."

"That's what I've always treasured about you, Hawk.  Your unconditional love and support."

"I will be thrilled to offer long-distance love and support.  And sympathy will be thrown in as a bonus.  The greater the distance, the greater the sympathy."

BJ laughed.  "I'll remember this next time you want a favor."

"As long as we're keeping score might I remind you of the incident last month where you got a splinter from that old toilet seat and –"

"Okay, okay," he said hurriedly with a self-conscious glance at Reynolds, who I was amused to note was trying his hardest not to snicker at BJ's expense.  "I will sleep elsewhere should the little stink bomb go off."

"Well I'm glad we got that settled," I declared with a haughty nod to BJ.  I turned to my Adonis and told him reluctantly, "It's probably time we got back.  Bigelow might start sending out search parties soon."

He offered me a wistful smile and gathered his crutches.  "I reckon we shouldn't keep the lady waitin'."

When we got back to Post-Op I perched painfully on the stool next to his bed while he got settled. 

"You're a right smooth operator, you know that?" he said in an undertone.

I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or admonishment.  "How's that?" I asked cautiously.

"'Your hand looks fine,'" he parroted in a humorous tone.

"Ah, you liked that, huh?"  I hoped.

"You might've just saved our asses."

I grinned.  "That's my thing."  Then I sobered.  "Too bad it didn't work out the other night."

He frowned.  "Yeah."

A grim silence fell and I felt bad for killing the mood.  I preferred making people laugh to dragging them down.  Of course, I wouldn't mind altering the mood in another way.  What I wouldn't give to be able to run my fingers through his hair again, cup his cheek with my palm, and trace his lips with my thumb.  I noticed the corners of his beautiful eyes crinkling and I realized that he'd assumed a soft smile in response to whatever he saw on my face.

Holy smokes did I have it bad for this man.  And if I kept staring at him like that everyone else would know it, too.  I dropped my gaze and tried unsuccessfully to school my face.  I wound up peering at his lap and found myself thinking about all the things we didn't get to do in the supply hut the other night/morning.  With effort I dragged my eyes back to his and felt myself blushing at his secretive little smile.  Blushing!  Me, Lothario!

Okay, I needed to get some distance before I did something that I would regret right in the middle of Post-Op.  It was one thing to flirt with a man and have everyone think I was joking.  It was another thing altogether to flirt with a man with _that_ expression on my face.  While staring at his crotch.

I patted Reynolds on the shoulder.  "I'd better head out" – _before I out us by jumping you in front of ten people_.  "My shift starts at four."

"I'll be lookin' forward to it," he whispered.

We traded soft smiles in parting.

 

* * *

  

The day dragged on.  I spent most of it lounging in my cot reading, writing a letter to Dad that mentioned everything but what had happened lately, darning socks, and, suspiciously enough, not drinking.  I knew BJ was scratching his head over that one.  That Phenobarbital was a miracle drug.  Still, it couldn't make time go any faster.  I thought I'd never make it to 4:00.  Sorry, 1600.

My shift in Post-Op was quiet once all of the patients adapted to having a doctor who looked like he should be a patient.  I passed most of the evening on my feet as I visited with patients – especially Reynolds – since sitting was still quite uncomfortable.  (Not that standing was painless.)  I even completed most of the compulsory paperwork while standing, using a patient's chart as a desk.

When midnight rolled around I was ready to sack out.  I finished all my forms and headed out to rouse BJ to replace me.

I didn't make it to the Swamp.

As I walked out of Post-Op an all-too-familiar hand grabbed me by the neck.  It was even more painful this time around with the bruises from the last episode, plus the chain that my dog tags hung from was trapped beneath his palm, cutting into my skin.  With his grip on my throat he half-pushed, half-dragged me around the back of Post-Op.

"Did you enjoy visiting with your _boyfriend_ in there?" Donner hissed quietly.

His hand held my throat so tightly I couldn't even make a snide remark.  Thankfully, though, I could still just barely breathe.  I was a big fan of that, breathing.

With the hand that was locked around my neck he pushed me up against the wall of the building.  He insultingly ignored my pathetic attempts to pry his hand from my throat while his other hand worked at my belt, then moved on to my pants and boxers.  When I stood in front of him with my fatigues pushed down to my boots he started in on his pants.

The hand on my throat loosened slightly as he worked at his fly and I immediately slipped a few fingers between it and my neck.  "Stop!" I rasped with as much authority as I could muster.

He laughed.  "And why should I do that?"

"I'll press charges," I threatened hollowly.

Another mocking laugh.  "If you want to get a dishonorable discharge for you _and_ your boyfriend – Sergeant Reynolds – then go right ahead."

_Damn_.  My bluff was called _and_ he had leverage over me in the form of Reynolds' identity.  _Shit shit shit shit shit_.  I fell silent and he chuckled again.

With a salacious grin Donner released his grip on my neck and I cautiously let my hands abandon their protective position at my throat and fall to my side.  His zipper dealt with, he stepped closer to me before pushing his pants and boxers down.  This time before he flipped me over he leaned in close and latched his mouth onto the side of my neck, sucking hard, then repeated it at the junction of my neck and shoulder.  He was marking me, I realized bleakly.  I was going to wear his brand for at least a week.

"Let's see what your boyfriend says about that," he taunted with a smirk.

_Jealous, kid?_ I thought scathingly.  I was saved from having to school my expression by his hands on my shoulders, twisting me around and pinning me to the back of the hospital.

_This is worth it to protect my future, right?_ I asked myself desperately as his hands roamed my body.  I pressed my palms to the cool wall, both pillowing my head and keeping myself from shoving him away.  _...Right?_

As he began using me I closed my eyes and thought as hard as I could of home.  ' _There's no place like home_ ' ran through my head in Judy Garland's voice.  I envisioned the ocean and the stream behind the house where Dad and I would fish.  I didn't think of Dad, though, because that just felt wrong.  Instead I imagined that I could smell the salt air, could hear the crash of the waves and the calls of the seagulls or the peaceful sound of the stream babbling over its rocky bed.  And I did manage to retreat somewhat to this happy place while Donner took me.  It pushed the nightmare slightly aside, if not to the background, and gave me a measure of peace.

Eventually he began slamming into me even more furiously, breaking the spell.  I struck the hospital wall – the side of Colonel Potter's empty office, to be exact – rhythmically and was just positive that someone (probably Radar) would hear and come to see what was making such a racket.  No one appeared though, for which I guess I was grateful.  The impotent anxiety that had blossomed in my gut over the possibility of getting caught in that position largely subsided once Donner finally finished.  I felt my shoulders slump in relief.  It was over.  Again.

His spent erection slipped out of me while I sagged against the wall and this time I felt something – either blood or Donner's warm seed – escape, sliding down my thigh.  I shuddered in disgust but didn't move to clean myself up just yet.  I needed a moment to collect myself before I could deal with the aftermath.

I heard Donner zip his fly closed and fully expected another smug goodbye.  Instead hands on my shoulders flipped me around and back against the building.  I stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise, as he resumed choking me.  Hard.  Soon black spots appeared before my eyes and I once again clawed desperately at his hand and arm.  The spots rapidly expanded until they completely filled my vision.  I never felt myself hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

 I came to sometime later.  At first it was like waking from a dream.  Reality had taken a short break and I listened comfortably to the typical late night camp sounds.  Then some part of my mind thought to ask why I was half-naked on the ground behind Post-Op and not on my cot.  And reality came crashing down on me like an unexpected ocean wave.  Panicked, I looked around to find myself completely alone.  There was no sign of Donner.

Rolling quickly to my feet, I swallowed experimentally and put a hand to my abused throat.  It felt worse than it did two nights before when he'd first left that handprint on my neck.  I hoped like hell that this episode didn't leave another mark.  Trembling, I slid up my boxers and pants, thankful that no one had found me unconscious with my pants around my ankles.  _That_ would have raised some uncomfortable questions.

With a shaky sigh I walked quickly back to the Swamp.  Frank was snoring in his bunk.  BJ's cot was empty.  The nurse had probably sent Radar to wake him if he hadn't come in on his own.  _He might be worried about me_ , I realized.  I decided to swing by Post-Op later to let BJ know I was okay.

But first I needed to stop shivering.  And to be able to breathe.  I just couldn't shake that feeling of malaise.  I could still feel his hands running all over me.  Everywhere.

_Maybe I should take Phenobarbital_ , I thought cautiously.  It had been plenty of time since my last dose.  And this would definitely count as an appropriate occasion for its use.  And really, I was taking small doses.  If I didn't have to operate there was nothing to keep me from taking more if I really needed it.  As long as I didn't overdo it.

With a decisive nod I carefully and quietly pulled out the drug and syringes.  With a cautious glance in the slumbering Frank's direction, I pulled down my pants (trying not to think of Donner and failing) and injected 5mL into my thigh.  I carefully stashed the bottle and syringes at the bottom of my footlocker.

I curled up loosely on my side in the cot and breathed slowly.  Soon I felt my heart rate decrease.  It became easier to inflate my lungs.  I stopped shaking so violently.  That feeling of unease when anything touched my body was greatly reduced.

I decided that it was time to get clean.  I could still feel the path that the sticky liquid had taken down my leg, and I was itching to scour my body raw until I could remove the memory of his touch.   I stripped down to my robe and boxers, grabbed my towel, and walked to the shower for the second time in 12 hours.  I consoled myself with the thoughts that at least there would be no line to get in and that I might just have hot water.

I would have been paranoid about seeing Donner again but, really, he'd already done his damage for the night.  _What more could he do to me now?_ I asked myself numbly.  No, he wouldn't be coming back for thirds just yet.

I ruminated on the attack while I showered, coming to the conclusion that I would have felt a little better about the whole situation if I'd fought back.  Maybe that was the clincher for me.  I had just let him kick my ass – _let him do something else to it, too_ , my brain supplied maliciously – and I might as well have _asked_ him to if I didn't put up a struggle.  I hated myself for it.  It made me less of a man to just passively allow him to fuck me.  I couldn't do it again.

Once I'd thoroughly scrubbed my entire body again, I toweled off, wrapped my robe around me, and swung by the Swamp.  There I got into some clean clothes and hung my towel up to dry.  I dropped the dirty pair of boxers to the floor, wondering if I'd just lost yet another piece of clothing to Donner's taint.

_I might wind up needing an entirely new wardrobe_ , I thought acrimoniously as I finished dressing.  _That_ idea shocked me into stillness.  Was I really planning on letting him continue to... to use me?  There must be some way to stop this.  Had to be.  I just needed a little time, and I'd come up with something.  _That's right_.  I'd figure something out.  I always did.  I _had_ to.

That decided, I next swung by the latrine and expelled the bastard's semen.  Fuck leaving any part of him inside me again.  Between that and the shower (and the Phenobarbital) I felt somewhat recovered.

Finally I headed over to Post-Op.  The patients – including Reynolds – were mostly sleeping, but BJ jumped to his feet when he saw me.

"Hawk!" he hissed, trying to be quiet and shout at the same time.  We retreated to the curtained off area that provided the most privacy available in the ward.  "Where have you _been_?  I've been worried sick!  You just disappeared and Radar had to come wake me up!"

"Yeah, sorry – sorry about that.  I had to... um... take a shower."  Wow, that sounded lame.  For God's sake, why hadn't I spent some time thinking up an excuse for my mysterious disappearance?

"A _shower_?  Are you telling me that you didn't come wake me up because you were taking a _three-hour_ -long shower?"

Wow, three hours?  I'd been out a lot longer than I thought.  "Well, no.  I... I took the shower right after I got off shift.  And then I lay down."  Not my best bullshit ever.  If we were playing poker I would have just lost the game and all of my money.

"Then why is your hair still wet?" he asked suspiciously.

"I had my own personal rain cloud following me around," I explained, deadpan, "just like in the funny papers.  It's parked right outside.  I hated to leave it alone out there – it gets lonely – but I didn't want to get the floors all wet."

"And why do you sound absolutely horrific?"

"I haven't been exercising my vocal cords," I replied with an impish smile.  That one was misleading, but not a complete lie; I wasn't talking while unconscious.

"And is your neck –"

My friend reached toward me and I felt his hand wrap around my throat and tighten.  I jerked away immediately, eyes wide, heart pounding, and hand clutching my neck, before realizing that, of course, BJ hadn't just grabbed me by the throat.  I looked to him as I fought to gain control of my breathing.  He was gazing back with a pained expression.

I closed my eyes in mortification.  _Dammit_.  This was not exactly going according to plan.  Time to cut and run.

"Hawk, what –"

"Well, uh, anyways," I glibly interrupted him once I'd gotten my heart to stop beating out of my chest.  "Just wanted to let you know that I'm fine.  And I've done that, so – goodnight!"

"Hawk, wait."  BJ touched my arm lightly and I nearly jumped a mile while simultaneously cringing away.  Champion of multitasking, that's me.  BJ's pained look took on an air of sadness.  "Come over to the exam room," he said gently.  "Let's talk."

Yeah, there was no way I was signing up for _that_ conversation.  As it was he was already putting together too many pieces of the puzzle and heading toward a picture that I didn't want him to see.

"It's late.  I need to get to bed.  I'm really wiped out."  I started sidling out.  "Have a good night!"

"Hawk, hang on."

I waved a falsely cheery goodbye in his direction and made a quick escape.  As soon as I hit the door I remembered exactly what had happened _last_ time I exited those doors that very night.  I flinched at absolutely nothing, throwing my hand out to shield myself from an attack that didn't come.  And then I felt very, very stupid.  I heard the door swing shut behind me and realized that all of Post-Op – including BJ – could have seen that humiliating display if the curtain had billowed in upon my exit.  Thankfully it wasn't a windy night; there was some hope that he'd missed it.

Either way I couldn't do anything about it.  I decided that I might as well go to sleep and see how things played out in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

There are days when all you get for stepping foot outside your bed (or cot) is trouble.  That morning I should have never opened my eyes, should have simply refused delivery on the proverbial shit that was en route to the proverbial fan.

Radar woke me around 8:15.  The colonel was summoning me.  BJ's cot was suspiciously empty.

"You rang?" I rasped with false cheer as I entered Potter's office.  He and BJ were already seated.  The colonel looked positively dour.  BJ didn't seem any happier.  This appeared to be a textbook example of 'does not bode well.'

"Ah, Pierce, good.  Come in.  Pull up a seat."

I perched carefully on a chair (that I did not, in fact, have to pull up to be front and center) and looked back and forth.  "So..." I prompted with dread.

"Now, Hunnicutt has shared some things that he's noticed with me" – I glared daggers in the fink's direction – "and we're both concerned.  No, don't look at him like that, he's doing the best he can for you."

I turned my glower on Potter's desk and sat in stony silence.  When he rose and circled the desk, though, I looked up cautiously.

"Stand up," he ordered.

I stood with alacrity.  Sitting was more painful anyway.  Couldn't get enough of standing.

Once I stilled he reached a hand toward me and I _knew_ he wasn't going to grab me by the throat – I _knew_ it – but I still couldn't stop myself from jerking away.  He and BJ shared a significant look.  I clenched my jaw and looked away, until:

"Tilt your chin up," Potter directed.

I guessed that was what he'd been trying to do just then.  He leaned in to inspect my throat and BJ stepped up beside him.  All in all it was too many people in my personal space but I tried to ignore the anxiety rising in my stomach.

"Different?" Potter asked BJ in an undertone.

Soon the shakiness evolved beyond something I could control and I broke out in small tremors.

"Yeah," BJ replied in kind.

With a light touch – I only twitched this time – he tilted my head to the side to more easily peer at the hickeys Donner had left on my neck.  I felt most self-conscious about those.  Perhaps because they were the most sexually explicit signs of the attacks?  (That they could see, at least.)

Potter turned to me.  "Do you have any other new marks you'd like to show the class?"

"Not particularly, no," I said as sweetly as I could manage.

"Let me rephrase that," he said sternly.  "Did you sustain any other new injuries last night?"

"Not that I'm aware of," I replied pleasantly.

"But you _were_ attacked again last night."  It wasn't quite a question.  More like a statement that he was giving me the option of refuting.  But he and BJ had already made their minds up about this.  It didn't matter how much I denied it.

I decided to play it straight.  Maybe it would buy me points.  Or help me dig my way out of the hole I was five feet into.  "Yeah," I admitted quietly, studying his desk again.

Potter walked back around and had a seat at his chair.  "Sit, please."  I complied with care.  "There are some questions I want to ask you.  You're welcome to choose to talk to me or BJ alone if you want.  We just need you to talk about it with someone."

_Oh hell_.  So much for buying myself points.

"First of all, I need the name of this man who is abusing you."  Apparently my attacker(s) had been reduced from possibly plural back down to singular.

"I fell down," I said with an obstinate glare at Potter's desk.

"You are in _danger_ if you continue to let him go free!"

_Don't I know it_.

"I need this man's _name_!  I have a duty to protect my people, and I can't do that if you won't give him up!"

I couldn't answer that – I had no choice – and I'd told them that.  Repeatedly.  I was fed up with that question.  My eyes snapped up to his.  "Look Colonel, I can give a damn, I can give it a shot, I can give up the ghost, give credit where credit is due, give you a hard time, give you a heads up, give you notice, give you free rein, give you a piece of my mind, give you a run for your money, give you a tongue-lashing, give you a wide berth, or give a man an inch, a rope, or a fish, but I can _not_ give you that name."

"You _are_ giving me a hard time – and a headache!"  Colonel Potter seemed less amused than BJ appeared to be.

"Well, I'm having a three-for-one sale, so feel free to pick out any other one that you want," I said brightly.

Potter looked like he was once again considering the concept of strangulation as an acceptable punishment for impertinent junior officers.  "Can you tell me _why_ you can't or won't give me the man's name?"

I chewed on my lip for a moment.  _I... well... if... no_ , I couldn't.  It wasn't safe.  "No," I finally said with defeat.

"Hmph."  I had a feeling this was filed under 'revisit later.'  He took a deep breath and collected himself before the next question.  "Can you tell us this, then:  did this man rape you?"

And there it was.  That four letter word.  My eyes snapped to his and I froze like a deer in headlights.  _It's not like you didn't suspect this question was coming_ , I berated myself.  _Pull yourself together_.  I yanked my eyes away.  They fell to that same spot on his desk again.

"No," I said woodenly.  It wasn't a lie; I wasn't raped.  Men don't get raped.  And, I hadn't fought back.  Ergo, I wasn't raped.

Trapper's callous words from a lifetime ago came back to me:  "I've never been to a rape before."  I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear it.  I still hadn't ever been to a rape.  Why would I even think that?  It was absurd.  I wasn't raped.  I wasn't.

"If you weren't raped, how do you explain the bruises all over your body that indicate you were held down?  Or the marks on your neck?  Or the apparent pain you have when sitting?  Or the way you flinch when anyone gets too near you?  Or the shaking?"

Had I been that obvious?  I stared down the desk angrily.  "I got beaten up.  Anyone would be twitchy after that."  I didn't really have an answer to the other points he'd brought up.

"Okay, well.  You should be aware, in case a rape _has_ occurred, that you should be tested for venereal disease."

That gave me pause.  That notion had sailed cleanly under my radar.  _Damn_.  And how screwed up would _that_ be?  A little seed of worry was planted in my gut.  I'd have to check myself later. 

Potter sat there and watched me blink owlishly as I processed that information.  "I can have Hunnicutt –" he began.

"I wasn't raped," I snapped, running a trembling hand over my face.

"Pierce, I want you to let BJ test you," he said firmly.  "Even if you weren't raped it's a good idea to get tested occasionally if you're sexually active.  And I'm not blind and deaf, son.  I hear what a ladies' man you are."

"I don't need a test," I growled.  I could do it on my own in _private_.

"Consider this an order.  Get BJ to test you for VD."

I wanted to throw something.  Right into his thick skull.  Instead I looked up at the ceiling and focused on breathing deeply and evenly.  My temper slowly began to erode and I looked back down at an older man, almost ready for retirement, who was having to deal with one of his subordinates that he might even consider a friend being violently assaulted yet refusing to give up the culprit.  I looked to BJ and saw a younger man who was watching his best friend being hurt repeatedly but who was being kept powerless for reasons that he wasn't given.  I could understand their concern.  I could understand their desire to exert whatever power they may have had to help me in some way, shape, or form.  I couldn't give them Donner, but I could let them have this.

"Pierce?  Hawkeye.  Have you heard a word I said?"

I snapped back to reality and blinked at an irritated colonel.  "Uh, yeah.  Yes sir," I replied genially.  "If we're done here I believe BJ and I have a date in the exam room?"

Potter's eyebrows climbed for a moment at my sudden about-face until he schooled the surprise from his expression.  BJ ventured a wry smile.

"We're on recess.  We'll be revisiting a couple of these subjects again.  Soon," he said ominously.

"I can't wait!" I declared with false enthusiasm.

I rose and turned to BJ, offering my arm as if to escort him.  He eyed my extended limb with caution and I remembered:  this was not just another day in Korea.  I decided to tuck the arm back against my torso and save us all another embarrassing (to me) meltdown.

We swung by the pharmacy for a vial of penicillin, then made the quick journey to the exam room in comfortable, if somewhat grim, silence.  Upon our arrival BJ paused to gather a tourniquet, syringes, gauze and tape, a specimen bottle, and test tubes.  I claimed a chair instead of the exam table and balanced myself with care.

"So," I said, sticking my arm out.  Thankfully it was no longer shaking terribly.  I watched as BJ tied on the tourniquet.

"So?"  He disinfected the site and expertly stuck a prominent vein on the side of my arm.  His clinical touch didn't seem to be troubling me further.

"So, you couldn't just talk to me about this stuff?  You had to go to Colonel Potter?" I asked as he milked me for a couple of vials of blood.

"If you may recall, I _did_ try to talk to you about it," he pointed out.  "Repeatedly.  I had to resort to telling the one person that you might not run out on."

"Oh.  Yeah."  He had, hadn't he?  _Whoops_.

He removed the needle and taped a piece of gauze over the site of the stick.  "Pee in this cup," he instructed, handing me the specimen bottle.

I went behind the curtain and filled the cup in abashed silence.

"He caught you coming out of Post-Op last night, didn't he?" BJ asked out of the blue.

I capped the specimen bottle and handed it back to him.  "Yeah," I admitted.

"What are you going to do to keep this from happening again?"

"I'll come up with something," I assured him with a lot more confidence than I actually felt.  I could tell that didn't completely set his mind at ease.

"Let me know if I can help," he offered.

I sent him a small smile.  I knew he was dying to be able to do _something_ to help me.  "Will do."

"We're almost done," he told me, returning to the business at hand.  He grabbed the vial of penicillin and filled a syringe with the prophylaxis.  "Drop your pants please."

I pounced on that golden set-up line in hopes that humor would keep me grounded in the face of my mounting anxiety.  "Why BJ, you sly devil, you."  I forced my mouth into some semblance of a lascivious smirk.  "Any excuse to get my pants off, hmm?"

"Alas, my cunning plot is foiled," he replied with a wry grin.

I returned to the matter at hand.  The syringe in my friend's hand, to be precise.  "Why don't you let me do that," I asked nervously, holding my hand out for the hypodermic.

He eyed me doubtfully.  "And how exactly do you plan to shoot this into your own gluteus?"

"I'm planning on shooting it into my thigh," I told him with an eye roll.

"I've been told this really hurts," he warned.

"I heard that somewhere too."  From a man who cried like a baby.

"No, what I mean is that you might have better luck walking out of here with a charley horse in your thigh than 4 cc of this."

I frowned; he was probably right.  After weighing my options I shook my head with a sigh.  "Alright.  Fine."  I'd only need to keep my cool for 30 seconds, tops.  That was doable.  All I had to do was focus on something other than the fact that once again there would be a man at my back intent on poking me in the ass.

With trembling hands I dropped my pants, letting them pool at my feet, and lowered my Army-issue boxers to my hips.  I leaned over the exam table, nestled my head into my arms, and closed my eyes.  My brain was loudly chanting _no no no no no_ , precluding any other thoughts from registering, and it was all I could do to stave off panic.  I thought I heard BJ saying something but I couldn't focus long enough to figure out what it was.

Fingers touched the waist of my boxers, lowering them further to expose my gluteus muscles.  Phantom hands immediately began running all over my body and I was just positive that the head of a penis would be forcing its way inside of me at any second.

"No no no – stop!" I said quickly, spinning abruptly and putting my back (and butt) against the exam table.  "I changed my mind."

BJ jerked backward at my sudden movement, surprised, and narrowly avoided stabbing me in the hip with the hypodermic.  "Talk about your last second decisions," he grumbled, half joking, half startled.

"Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed, as I swiftly tugged my pants up.  "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I do."  He met my gaze as he gently expounded:  "You went through a traumatizing experience.  You've got your own sort of battle fatigue.  It's not your fault; don't feel bad."

"Mmph."  Battle fatigue.  No, I hadn't been in combat, but the symptoms kind of fit.

BJ held the syringe out, looking at me expectantly.  "You probably shouldn't have pulled your pants back up if you plan to stick this in your thigh," he pointed out.

Oh.  Yeah.  With a frown I slid my trousers back down to my knees and claimed a chair.  I took a deep breath and held out a shaking hand for the hypodermic.  As soon as BJ handed it off I nearly dropped it.

"You sure you don't want me to do it?" he asked worriedly.

"Positive."  With a grimace I sank the needle into my thigh and depressed the plunger.  " _OH!_ "  The solution was practically solid.  "Ah, ah, ah!"  I paused in my ministrations and sucked in a breath.  "Beej, I think someone switched the penicillin with plaster of Paris."

"I'll alert the pharmacist," he said dryly.

More collected after voicing my complaint, I finished the painful injection and handed BJ the used syringe.  I stood to pull my pants back up and my victimized leg gave out on me.  Thankfully I hit the chair before I made it to the ground.  The sudden impact sent a spike of pain through my rectum.

"You okay?" BJ asked me, concerned.  He'd paused on the way to dispose of the syringe and looked like he was resisting the urge to grab my arm to steady me.

"Peachy," I growled.  "Never better."

He rolled his eyes.  "Didn't we have a conversation where you were going to stop treating me like an idiot?"

A wry smile crept onto my face.  "Ah!"  I pointed a finger at him.  "But you said 'imbecile' before.  I've stopped treating you like an imbecile.  I'm now treating you like an idiot."

"You're right.  My mistake."  He waited a beat.  "What's the difference again?"

"An idiot has an IQ of 25 and lower.  Imbecile is 26 to 50.  If you had called yourself a moron earlier I could be treating you like an imbecile now, but _nooo_ , you had to be an underachiever."

"This is why I never went into psychology.  Too many numbers to remember."  We traded grins before sobering.  "I'll go run these labs and get back to you with the results.  Let me know if _you're_ promoted to imbecile and you decide you want to talk."

"Don't hold your breath," I told him gently with an apologetic smile.

 

* * *

 

The day passed slowly.  After assuring me that the preliminary lab results were clean, BJ went to sleep and was out for a good eight hours.  I was afraid to go out alone; I only left the Swamp twice.  Once was an anxious trip to the latrine.  The other trip was a more pleasant visit to Post-Op to talk to Reynolds.

"Sergeant Reynolds," I greeted him formally as I interrupted a card game between him and a few other patients.  "Mind if I have a word?"

He smiled up at me.  "Don't mind at all.  You just saved me from losin' all my chips, as a matter of fact.  Well, all my cotton swabs."

I compared the minuscule collection of swabs in front of Reynolds to the heaping piles in front of the other players.  It seemed that my Adonis had about as much luck as he did coordination.

He gathered his crutches and we made our way back to his bed.  He lowered his large frame cautiously to the cot and I was surprised to note that it didn't creak in protest.  I gingerly claimed a nearby stool.

"Hey sweetheart," he whispered once we were settled.  We exchanged bright smiles.

"Hey Ross," I replied softly.  My smile faded.  "Look" – I had to stop to bite back an endearment of my own – "um, I just wanted to let you know that Donner knows your name."

His expression turned steely.

"He doesn't seem to be interested in – in hurting you, but he made sure I knew that you would go down with me if I said anything."  I rushed to reassure him:  "I'm definitely not planning on talking though, trust me.  I just wanted you to know, in case you did see him on the way to the latrine or what have you:  be careful."

" _He's_ the one needin' to be careful," Reynolds growled.  "I'd be happy as all get out if he'd start somethin' an' give me the excuse to finish it."

I shook my head with a smile.

"I know, I know," he added quickly before I could say anything.  "Don't go gettin' riled up.  I'll behave," he told me grudgingly.  "But I 'preciate the warnin'."

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," I said warmly.  Though I seriously doubted Donner could really subject Reynolds to... to... _that_.  My sergeant could take care of himself.  "Or us," I added honestly.  If Donner felt threatened I had no doubt that he'd turn us in to get rid of said threat.

"I'd say the same but I think it'd be a bit belated."

I gave him a lopsided grin, thinking of how much I'd miss this man when he inevitably was sent on his way.  The last time I'd had an infatuation this bad I'd been in grade school.  It was kind of on the level of Miss America visiting your hometown and being interested in you.  Well, a Miss America with an enthusiasm for violence, an unfortunate lack of coordination, and a penchant for bad grammar and idioms occasionally requiring a translator.  Usually I would have hated the violence part but, honestly, if I'd let him deck Donner to begin with I would have saved myself a world of grief.

"So," I began.  "You're going to be shipped out soon."

He put on an absolutely adorable pout.

"I'm honestly kind of surprised that they haven't yet cornered me about why you've been here so long with just a sprain.  I should've sent you to Seoul already.  But.  I had a thought."

His eyes perked up hopefully.  "I'm listenin'," he drawled.

"I can mark your sprain as a grade two.  You'd have to spend three to five additional weeks in Tokyo."

"I think I like where this is goin'."

"I haven't been on R&R in ages.  I imagine a trip to Tokyo would be the perfect thing to relax me after my beating.  Don't you agree?"

He nodded.  "I reckon you'd need a right long stay to really unwind."

"Ah, I was hoping you'd say that.  You're absolutely right.  Quite a long stay."

We shared wicked grins before I remembered to school my face in Post-Op.  I looked up to the desk at the end of the room to see if anyone had noticed anything awry.  Colonel Potter was there doing paperwork from the look of things.  Lieutenant Gage was chatting with another nurse – probably Jo Ann, judging by the back of her head – at the other end.  I was in the clear.

"Well, I can't wait to play doctor with you in Tokyo," I told him quietly with a leer.  I only hoped I was ready for close contact by the time a trip to Tokyo rolled around.

"You gonna prescribe bed rest for me?"  He quirked an eyebrow and graced me with a sexy smirk.

"That sounds like just what the doctor will order."  I grinned back and patted him fondly on the shoulder as I rose.  "I've got the night shift, so if you're still awake at midnight I'll see you then."

"I might have trouble sleepin' tonight," he said mischievously.  "Who knows."

"I look forward to finding out."

We traded parting smiles and I headed back toward the Swamp.

On my way out of Post-Op I happened upon a highly amusing heated discussion between the two nurses.

"No, I'm going to do it before the end of my shift," Gage said firmly.

"You gave him a sponge bath yesterday!" Jo Ann protested.

"It's not my fault if Reynolds likes me more than –"  Gage cut herself off when she saw me approaching.

They both watched me meander by in awkward silence and I tried my hardest not to laugh.  I managed to keep my reaction to a wide grin and a head shake and patted myself on the back for my restraint.  I'd have to tell Reynolds that the nurses were fighting over him.  He'd get a kick out of that.

Once I settled quietly back in my tent, trying not to wake the sleeping BJ, I attempted to come up with things to keep myself occupied.  Afraid to go to the mess tent solo, I skipped lunch (and hadn't gotten around to eating breakfast, either), but started drinking as soon as I returned from my Post-Op visit.  I had work at midnight so I figured I could drink up until 9-ish.  My throat was threatening to file for divorce if I threw any more lighter fluid at it but I soldiered on and it took one for the team.

I was soused and on the way to wasted when Radar knocked on the door.

"Entrez," I bade him.

"Uh, Hawkeye, can I come in?"

I chuckled.  "Yes, Radar, come on in.  Join the party!  But remember, it's a quiet party," I added, pointing to the sleeping BJ.

He entered and looked around, appearing underwhelmed at the party atmosphere and turnout.  Well, I _was_ the party, and I was smashing.  Or at least smashed.

"Uh, don't get mad, but" – I hated sentences that started like that – "Colonel Potter says not to come in for your shift tonight."

I waited for him to continue, but that seemed to be it.  "Did he say _why_ , by any chance?"

Simultaneously Radar said, "All he said was to tell you not to come in, and to say that there's no reason bothering him because he won't change his mind."

Oh, that irked me.  And what's more, I knew he'd probably sent Radar in particular because he knew I wouldn't shoot _that_ messenger.  Not fatally, at least.

"Well, I want to know why I'm not supposed to come in."  I stood quickly and wobbled for a bit, throwing my arms out to help keep my balance.

Radar watched me with a doubtful expression.  I think he expected me to fall over at any moment.  I couldn't say that it was beyond the realm of possibility.  Plus, he _was_ called Radar for a reason.  Maybe his radar told him I was going to fall over.

I waited a moment and when I stabilized I gave a shrug.  Radar's radar didn't seem to be infallible.

"Um, Hawk, he really didn't want to see you tonight.  He's having BJ take your shift.  I'm supposed to tell him, but I don't want to wake him up."  He eyed my bunkmate uncertainly.  "Will you tell him when he wakes up?"

"Yeah yeah."  Fine.  Whatever.  Moving right along.  "Who's taking BJ's shift?"

"I think Colonel Potter is.  And, do you promise you'll tell him?"

"Of course, of course."  I waved a drunken arm at him.

"You won't forget?" he reiterated anxiously.

"Do you know what Napoleon Bonaparte said?" I asked in lieu of an answer.

"Who?"

I don't know that his question even registered in my pickled brain.  "Well, I'm sure he said quite a few things throughout his life, but the one that just popped into my head is:  'The best way to keep one's word is not to give it.'"  It struck me as I uttered the last word that this may, in fact, have been the wrong quote to use when aiming for reassurance.  "Ah, now, I realize that that may make you a little nervous – a little _more_ nervous – about me keeping this promise, but I do so solemnly swear that I shall" – _uh, what was I supposed to – oh yeah_ – "tell BJ about the shift thing.  Unless I die, then it may be out of my hands.  But that's an outlier as far as possibilities go."

Radar looked at me like I might be crazy and it was definitely contagious.  "Uh, whatever you say Hawk."  He looked around, obviously wanting to bail.  "Well, I've got to go... retype the daily report.  Don't forget to tell him."

"Alright.  See you around."  Probably not, actually, unless he came back to the Swamp.

As I drank and ruminated I put my mind to work finding a way out of this Donner problem.  I played with the idea of stealing the camera, burning the film, and hoping like hell that my picture was on that film, but the logistics were a problem.  For one thing, I didn't have a clue where Donner bunked.  And how did I know that he hadn't already sent that roll of film away to be developed?  If only he didn’t have that picture!  I mean, otherwise who would believe a private claiming that he'd caught the legendary Don Juan Pierce with a _man_?  I could laugh that off easily enough.  Probably.  Hopefully.  If there was just some way to destroy that film.

Then I started wondering, for the umpteenth time, _why_ he'd shown up there, at that moment, with a camera.  Yes, he was obviously looking for leverage with which to blackmail someone, but was it specifically for me or did he do that every time he saw a hanger on that door late at night?  It was just so _bizarre_.  I kept thinking I'd wake up at any time, but reality – at least, a different, better reality – was inconsiderately AWOL.

The hamsters in my head ran and ran fruitlessly on their little wheels.  No matter how hard I racked my brain, the solution just wouldn't come.

 

* * *

 

BJ woke right about dinner time.  He sat up with a groan and I sent a hundred-kilowatt smile his way.

" _Hey_ ol' buddy ol' pal!" I slurred.

He rubbed an eye, then got a good look at me.  "Hawk, are you as toasted as you look?"

"I passed toasted hours ago," I admitted with a mischievous grin.

"Wow.  Um, what's the occasion?"

"Potter pulled me off Post-Op duty," I explained sullenly.  "You have my shift."

"And that's reason to get drunk?"

"No.  I was already drunk when Radar came in.  I was gonna stop though, and sober up.  But now there's no reason to stay sober.  Get sober.  Be sober."

"I see.  What time is it?"  He looked around to find it getting dark out.

"Dinner time.  I was hoping you'd wake up."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment.  Any particular reason?"

"I'm afraid to leave the tent alone," I admitted bitterly.  Then I wondered if I'd really meant to say that.  _Maybe I should avoid talking about anything remotely resembling the recent developments in my life while drunk_.  What if something else came slipping out?  Something like 'I let myself be fucked by a man so that he wouldn't tell the Army that I'm bisexual and get me sent home with a dishonorable discharge'?

BJ unleashed a look of sheer pity on me.  I scowled.  I wasn't sure what I'd intended when I let that little gem slip but I sure didn't want a pity party.

"Did you eat lunch?" he asked with concern.

"I had gin for lunch."  I pointed at the still in case he wondered where I got the gin.  "Champions of lunch, that's what that was."  I had to pause and play that sentence back in my mind.  "Lunch of champions," I corrected.

"I can tell."

"Anyways," I said, steering the conversation back on course.  "You hungry?"

"Yeah, definitely," he replied quickly.

"Can we stop by the latrine on the way?"  I'd had to pee for over an hour and the more I drank the worse it got.  Funny how that worked.

"Of course, no problem."

I had another martini while BJ got dressed, then we set off for the mess tent by way of the latrine.  A few times I stumbled and might have landed face-first if BJ hadn't caught me.  Strangely enough, his arm around my torso was comforting.  A connection to a caring friend as opposed to a memory of Donner.  I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or if I was making progress.  I didn't seem to want to stay sober long enough to find out.

When we reached the mess tent BJ parked me on the bench next to Margaret.  He elected to fix my tray for me, apparently concerned that I would fall over and spill my food all over myself and the ground.  Smart guy.

"Anything you want in particular?" he asked before he went up.

"I want a Maine lobster!  With drawn butter.  And –"

"Hawk!" he interrupted impatiently.  "What do you want that I can get you?"

"Do they have ice cream?" I asked him hopefully.  "Or Jell-O or pudding?  Apple sauce?  Mashed potatoes?  Anything like that."

BJ's face took on a pained expression.  "I'll find out," he said once he screwed on an obviously fake smile.

"Thanks," I slurred.

"You're _drunk_!" Margaret exclaimed from my other side.

I turned to face her with a wry smile and she leaned away from the alcohol fumes she might have been assaulted by.  "You're _beautiful_."

"It's only 1800 hours!"

I stopped and did the math in my head.  "No, it's six o'clock."

"They're the same thing!  How could you come to dinner this inebriated?!  It's disgraceful!  You're in the Army for crying out loud!"

"Not by choice!" I objected vehemently.

"Be that as it may, you're an officer!  You should act like one!"

"You're right completely.  Com- completely right.  I'll try and act more like _Major_ Burns.  ...What time do I meet you in your tent again?  There are some Army regulations I'm just _dying_ to 'discuss' with you."

"Ooohhh!"  She looked like she wanted to slug me.  I hoped that she didn't aim for a bruised spot.  Might as well give the other parts of my face a fair shot, after all.

That was about when Colonel Potter arrived with Radar in tow.  They set their trays down across from us.

"Colonel, this man's drunk!" Margaret said, pointing at me.

"Of course I'm not drunk!" I said, feigning offense, then added with a manic giggle:  "I'm wasted!"

Radar covered his face with his palm and shook his head.

Potter had a seat and gave me a visual assessment.  "Any reason in particular why you'd get it in your head to come to the mess tent drunk?"

"I just so happened to be drunk, and it just so happened to be dinner time," I said with a wave of my hand.

BJ pulled up with both our trays.  Mine had a bunch of something that looked quite mushy.  Bless him.

"Hawk, I got the last of the tapioca –"  He shut up when he heard the colonel addressing me.

"Well would you mind being a little bit more discrete?  These enlisted boys can be impressionable.  I don't want them thinking it's good form to show up everywhere three sheets to the wind."

"Aw, Colonel, you know this is a special circumstance," BJ said in my defense.

"I know, and that's why I'm not reading him the riot act.  That, and because I'm not sure he'll remember this tomorrow, anyways, and I hate to waste my breath."

"I don't forget," I told Potter emphatically.  For some reason it was very important to me that he understood that.  I pinned him with my glassy stare.  "I _can't_ forget.  Anything.  No matter how much I drink.  It won't go away."

Then our table went quiet, with the four of them looking at me.  Radar and Margaret looked slightly puzzled and a little bothered; BJ and Potter looked downright perturbed.

Message delivered, I decided it was a good time to check out what BJ had put on my plate.  Hmm.  Tapioca pudding and creamed corn.  Lots and lots of creamed corn.  After a perfunctory Sniff Test I dug in with gusto.  I hadn't realized how starving I was.  Well, I guess that's what happens when you skip two meals.

After a moment of shoveling food into my mouth (neither one was bad on my jaw, and they only bothered my tender throat a little) I looked up to see everyone still uncomfortably silent.  BJ and Colonel Potter were alternating between trading significant looks and watching me eat, Margaret was staring awkwardly at her plate, and Radar was scowling in thought as he worked his way through his heaping tray.

"Was it something I said?"

 

* * *

 

"I forgot to ask why he took me off duty for tonight!" I groaned when BJ and I got back to the Swamp.

"Oh.  Well, I'm sure you'll find out tomorrow," he consoled me.

"Yeah yeah," I mumbled.  "Oh!  Um, will you tell Sergeant Reynolds that I'm sorry I couldn't make it tonight and we'll finish our, uh, conversation later?"  I'd tell him myself but I thought it would be bad form for a doctor to go into Post-Op drunk off his ass, even if he wasn't on duty.

"Sure," he nodded.

That covered, I returned to the still.  'Drunk off my ass' I might have been, but I still had to make up for how much more sober dinner had made me feel.  I hadn't even tripped on the way back from the mess tent; I had a way to go to return to my earlier glory.  BJ looked on with mounting concern as I once again endeavored to get so blind drunk that I managed to forget two of the worst days of my life.  I talked about anything and everything but, to my friend's disappointment, the attacks.  I passed out before he even left for his (my) shift.

I still couldn't forget.


	5. Chapter 5

When I woke up the next morning – well, early afternoon, technically – I cursed God or whoever had thought to make daylight so damn _bright_ , and each and every noise in camp, and the world that wouldn't stop spinning no matter what I did.  I felt better after vomiting a large amount of bile and the remnants of the previous night's binge, but I bet that my bunkies wouldn't be so thrilled.  I'd tried to make it to the door but wound up throwing up right inside of it, resulting in a sizeable rancid puddle in the doorway.  I hoped neither of them arrived before I got around to cleaning it up.

"Do you feel better now?" a familiar voice asked me.  I yelped, jumped a mile, and landed on my butt on the floor beside my cot.

"Ow ow _ow_!" I shouted.  The sound felt like it was being ripped from my raw throat.  I then covered my ears in anguish.  "Ohhhhh," I moaned more quietly.  I waited until my head reached a marginally lesser state of agony, then turned an exasperated gaze on Sidney Freedman.

"When you're creepily watching someone sleep have the decency to alert them to your presence should they become conscious!" I griped hoarsely.

"I thought that's what I did!" Sidney contested lightheartedly.  My answering scowl turned into a grateful ghost of a smile when he approached with a cup of water.  "Let's get you rehydrated," he said.

"Good plan," I acknowledged.  I gulped the water for a moment, wincing when it hit my scorched throat, before asking a question I already knew the answer to; I was just curious as to how he'd answer.  "What are you doing here?"

"I can't come visit my friends?" he replied evasively.

"Your timing is suspect," I informed him.

"Why don't we chat after you take a moment to recover?"  That sounded foreboding to me but my bladder was sending me desperate signals and I elected to comply with his suggestion.

Staggering to my feet, I eyed the pool of bile with distaste before a solution came to me.  I grabbed Frank's towel and placed it over the puddle, then performed a short hop to clear it.  Wishing I was blind – or for a pair of dark sunglasses – I stumbled to the latrine.  When I returned to the Swamp I found Sidney finishing mopping up my vomit with the stolen towel.  I almost managed to smile at him.

"You didn't have to do that," I told him.

"I know.  But I have a feeling that we'll be spending some time in here and I'd rather not smell it any more than I have to."  Tossing the towel out of the door like the hazardous waste it was, he then claimed the chair next to my cot.

"You're a smart man."  I sat on the edge of said cot before changing my mind and stretching out on my side.

Sidney watched me attentively.  "Thank you.  I've always thought so."

I flashed him a weak half-smile before the expression slipped from my face.  "So," I prompted.  "What brings you here today?  It's not poker night."

Sidney fixed me with a direct gaze.  "As I'm sure you've already surmised, Colonel Potter called me in."

Frank's timely arrival saved me from having to admit knowing anything.  "Well, look who's finally awake," he whinged as he stepped in the door.  "Oh!  I didn't know you were here, Major Freedman."  I think he was trying for politeness but what he projected was irritation.  He then stopped and looked around.  "What's that _smell_?"

The tent _did_ have a distinctly vomit-like odor to it.  I put on my best innocent expression.

Sidney ignored pretty much everything that came out of his mouth.  "Hello Major," he said more pleasantly than I ever thought necessary for Frank.  "We're actually having a private conversation at the moment.  Would you mind coming back later?"

"This is my tent too, you know," Frank told me defiantly.  I suspected it was easier for him to direct his rudeness at me rather than at Sidney.  He had a lot of practice with me.

"Well, feel free to go tell Colonel Potter on us so he can tell you to take a hike," I proposed, adding helpfully:  "I think he's in Post-Op now."

Without another word – unless you counted an angry huffing sound – Frank exited in a fit of pique.  I thought it was far more likely that he was heading to Margaret's tent than to Colonel Potter.

Sidney turned back to me.  "If you want we can talk in the V.I.P. tent," he offered belatedly.

I thought of the still and my potential need for alcohol in the very near future but managed to keep my eyes mostly on Sidney.  "No, we can stay here," I said agreeably.

"I figured," he replied dryly.  "Now.  Where were we?"

"Why you're here," I supplied.

"You already know why I'm here, Hawkeye," he countered mildly.

"Then go ahead.  Start your analysis," I said, defiance and challenge in my tone.  I grimly tried to prepare myself for another round of painful questions that I just couldn't answer.

"I can already see that you don't want to talk about it," he proffered.

"A brilliant deduction, my dear Watson.  You should be at the Mayo Clinic."  I knew I shouldn't be directing my frustration at Sidney – he was just trying to help, and he actually may have been under orders to assess me – but dammit, I didn't want to have this discussion.

"What happened to your face?" he asked innocently, as if he couldn't guess that I'd been punched.

I decided to stick with the same story I told Potter and BJ.  "I fell down."

"I see.  What about your neck?"

"I fell down," I said flatly.

"That looks like a handprint on your throat."

_How very observant of you_.  "I fell down."

"Did you fall on someone's hand?" he asked sarcastically.

I pursed my lips and looked away.  I was sick of the conversation already, and something told me it was far from over.

"They tell me they think you've been raped," he said more gently.

"They mentioned that to me, too," I replied blandly.

" _Were_ you raped?" he asked softly.

My eyes sought the ground before I could stop them.  "No.  I wasn't."  _I wasn't_.

"You have fingerprint-shaped bruises all over your sides and hips and hickeys on your neck.  You're in obvious discomfort when you sit down.  And close contact causes you to tremble and flinch.  How do you explain all of that?" he questioned earnestly.

I sighed in frustration.  This was like having all of my teeth pulled, one by one, with no anesthesia.  "Look Sidney," I said shortly.  "I can't tell you.  I'm sorry.  I almost wish I could.  But I can't."

"Why not?"  He leaned forward in the chair.  "Why can't you tell me?"

Even if you overlooked the entire blackmail thing, I still wouldn't feel safe divulging my secret to him.  Yes, Sidney was a friend, but Sidney was also an Army psychiatrist.  I had no idea what his personal views on homosexuality and bisexuality were, but the field of psychiatry officially labeled homosexuality as a mental disorder and the only reason bisexuality wasn't similarly classified was because it was hardly a blip on the medical community's radar at the time.  Regardless, between his profession and his employer there was no way I was taking that chance with my future.

"If you're afraid of the person who did this to you, you can rest assured that he'll be removed from this camp and you'll be kept safe."

I rolled my eyes.  Everyone seemed to get stuck on that train of thought.

"Then what is it?" he asked patiently.

I mulled it over in silence for a few minutes and decided that maybe it would be safe to divulge one thing after all.  It might satisfy some of their desire to know _why_ this was happening, and it might even get them off my back (I could hope).  Apparently Sidney could see the gears turning in my head because he held his tongue.

"This person," I said tentatively, hoping I wasn't making a mistake.  "He knows something.  And there would be severe repercussions for me if anyone found out."  There.  Let's see what he did with that.

"He's blackmailing you?" he asked, and in his voice I could hear the shock that he was trying unsuccessfully to mask.  I studied the floor and nodded once.  "He's blackmailing you for _sex_?"  He sounded astonished.

"I wasn't raped," I said by rote.

Sidney eyed me.  "Sex by coercion is, by definition, nonconsensual.  If you did not _want_ to have sex with him – and I'm guessing from your bruises and your behavior that you didn't – then it was rape."

I blanched.  _Men aren't raped,_ my brain insisted.  _You didn't fight back_ , it reminded me.  My chest was tight and I had a lump in my already painful throat, so it was with effort that I grated out my refrain:  "I wasn't raped."  I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince.

"Hawkeye," he said with compassion, "there's nothing to be ashamed of.  It wasn't your fault."

At that my eyes jerked up from the ground to his face.  _Of course it's my fault_ , I thought.  _I just let him do it_.

I needed a drink.  I sat up, walked around him to the still, and poured myself another 'martini.'  It burned like hell going down.

"You want one?" I offered politely as soon as my ravaged throat could produce sound.

I looked up from my drink to find Sidney watching me.  He shook his head dolefully.

"Besides embalming yourself, what do you plan to do about this man?"

"I'm working on that."  Highly unsuccessfully. 

"And do you think you'll have a solution before the next time he decides to hurt you?"

I hoped like hell I would.  "Definitely."  I was a world-class bluffer.  Just ask all the people who'd lost money to me at a poker table.

"I'd like to hear a few of your ideas."  Apparently Sidney remembered all the money I'd fleeced from _him_.

"They're still in progress.  I'd hate to tell you and ruin the surprise before they're done."

"Uh huh.  Well _I_ hate to be the bearer of bad news –"

"Then don't be," I interjected sharply.

"– but Colonel Potter wants this issue addressed before you return to work."

"I'm suspended?!" I asked in disbelief.  "On what grounds?"  I knew that this was a result of my recent behavior, but I was struck by the unfairness of it.  I was trying, I really was.

"Your C.O. is concerned –" Sidney began.

"There's nothing to be concerned about!" I shouted, setting my glass down and beginning to pace.  To hell with my hangover, to hell with my head – the situation warranted raised voices.

"Nothing?!" Sidney scoffed at a lower volume.  "Have you looked in the mirror recently?  Did you forget that you were so anxious that you drugged yourself in order to operate?  Or that you've been keeping yourself in a perpetual state of intoxication?  You need to cope with this!"

Well when he put it like that it sounded bad.  "There's nothing to cope with!" I contested hotly as I circled the tent.

"Hawkeye, you were raped, beaten, and blackmailed into silence!" he said quietly (thank God).  "If you don't come to terms with this, it will eat you alive."

"I wasn't raped," I disagreed hollowly.  _I wasn't_.

"You need to tell us who it is," Sidney entreated me.  "You are at _risk_ if that man remains at liberty."

I knew it.  "He could ruin my life," I admitted softly.

"He could _take_ your life!"

Donner wouldn't go that far.  "I'm sorry.  I can't."

"Hawkeye," he said somberly, "another part of this evaluation is to determine if you should be transferred to another unit."

I stopped my pacing as panic shot through my body like an electrical shock.  _Transferred?!_

"Oh no!" I yelled.  "No no no.  You can't!"  What would I do without BJ?  How could I stay sane in a more military-like post?  I took it for granted here, I realized with dread.  "You can't do that to me!"

"Hawkeye, you're in mortal danger here!" he stressed.

"I'll be fine!" I argued.  "You're overreacting."  This was apparently the wrong response.

" _'Fine'?!  'Overreacting'?!_  This man has attacked and raped you twice in less than four days!  Something _has_ to be done.  If you would tell us who he is then we wouldn't have to consider a transfer!"

"Sidney, if I'm transferred I know for sure – I'm 100% positive – that I won't leave this war with my sanity intact.  I _need_ this unit.  I need these _people_.  They are what's holding me together through this hell.  Please don't make me leave that."

"Then tell me who he is!  I know you may find this hard to believe at the moment, but I don't want you to be transferred either!"

"Then don't!" I shouted at full volume.  They probably heard me all the way in Post-Op (again).  With a groan I wrapped my hands around my aching head.

"If I can't make sure you're safe then I don't have a choice.  Your personal safety is the most important factor here."

"You're a psychiatrist.  Aren't you supposed to be concerned with my mental health?"

"There has to be a living body to house the mind."

I chewed on my lip.  "He wouldn't kill me."

"Before the first attack did you also think he wouldn't hurt you?"

"I didn't really know him before the first attack," my mouth divulged before my brain had a chance to argue.  I bit my lip harder to make it behave.

"But ever since then you've been having such quality heart-to-hearts," Sidney said sarcastically.

I scowled.  "Sidney, please.  I'll figure something out.  I will."  It was complete and utter bullshit – I had absolutely no clue how I could stop Donner from doing anything he so desired – but I couldn't let myself be sent to another MASH unit.  Granted, if I had to choose between a transfer and a dishonorable discharge I'd have to accept the transfer, but I was willing to fight tooth and nail to stay at the 4077.  To stay with my friends.  To stay with my family.

I'd just have to come to terms with what had happened, be careful not to be alone and vulnerable at night, teach myself to be able to go in the supply hut without seeing that disturbing tableau in my head, and avoid Private Donner at all costs.  _That's completely doable_ , I coached myself.

I looked at Sidney with all the earnestness I could possibly muster while lying through my teeth.  "I can handle it.  _Please_ , let me handle it," I begged, desperation in my tone.

Apparently something in my eyes or voice convinced him.  After a lengthy pause in which I hardly dared to breathe, he nodded once.  "Alright.  I'll tell your colonel that my recommendation is to give you a little more time."

I sagged in relief and sent a heartfelt thank you to a god I wasn't entirely sure I believed in.  It only seemed polite, if he did exist.

"And to let me go back to work," I prompted hopefully.

" _That_ you'll have to take up with your C.O."  Sidney rose to leave.  "And, Hawkeye... if you're unable to fulfill your end of the deal, or if this happens again, we're going to have to revisit this chat, and something will be done."

"Duly noted," I told him with a nod, hoping like hell that this whole issue would never be mentioned again.

 

* * *

 

Not too long after Sidney left I was once again summoned to Colonel Potter's office.  I could only hope that this chat would go better than the last two.

"Hello, Pierce," the colonel said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk.  "I wish we could stop meeting like this."  There was a bit of an edge to his tone.

"I can't say these sessions are the highlight of my day either, sir."

"Well, let's see if we can work something out so we can stop them, then."

I had the distinct impression that he wanted that 'something' to be me giving up Donner's name.

"As I'm sure you know, I talked with Sidney Freedman," Potter began.

"I had an inkling."

The colonel nodded.  "Against his better judgment he's recommending that I let you stay here and deal with this piece of garbage yourself.  I'm willing to go along with that.  I've grown quite fond of you, not to mention you're the best surgeon we have."

I would have been feeling a bit more optimistic if I hadn't suspected there to be a 'but' coming on.

"However."  Yep, there it was.  "I cannot let you go back to work until I have either this man's name or proof that you've dealt with the situation."

"Colonel –"

He cut me off.  "I want you to give me this man's name, dammit!  The man who's blackmailing you, who abused you."

"I'm sorry," I said unwaveringly.  "I can't."

He was silent for a moment.  "I'm sorry too, son.  I can't let you operate until this problem is resolved."

"What about the next flood of wounded?" I challenged.  "What about the next 18-hour O.R. shift, down one surgeon?"

"That's all the more reason for you to tell me," he fired back.  "Not to mention that you're letting a _predator_ roam free through my camp!  What if he does to someone else what he did to you?  Do you really want that on your conscience?"

My throat suddenly constricted.  "That's not –" I choked out before I had to stop and swallow against the newly-formed lump there.  I tried again.  "That's not my responsibility!"  He couldn't put that on me!  I was not accountable for Donner's behavior!  Plus, there was no way he would have the opportunity to hurt anyone else like that.  I'd put myself in a vulnerable position, giving Donner an in to exploit.  "That won't happen," I denied.

"And just how do you know that?" Potter demanded quietly.

"Because it was _my_ fault that he did what he did," I explained heatedly with a wave of my hands.  "No one else would be in that situation.  I was stupid, and careless."

Colonel Potter stared at me then, stricken.  "Look son," he finally said in earnest, "that wasn't your fault.  In no way was what he did your fault."

I frowned and deflected.  "Well.  Anyways.  You can't afford not to let me work.  You _need_ me here to operate."  He opened his mouth to reply but I wasn't done.  "Also, don't you think it's a little ham-handed to try to coerce me into giving you my blackmailer's name?" I pointed out, shaking my head wonderingly.

"I'm not suspending you in an attempt to strong-arm you into doing this my way," he objected indignantly.  "I'm honestly concerned about the probability of you operating in some state besides sober – again!"

_Oh._   I quickly found something very interesting to study on my lap.  Yeah, he definitely couldn't find out about my latest dose of Phenobarbital.

"I know you're having a rough time so I'm not going to harp on this, but I also can't have you operating before your head's screwed on straight."

"Then don't let me operate," I bargained, "just let me do rounds and see patients."  I would go nuts if I had to sit in this camp with no distraction.  Especially with my teenaged assailant on the loose.

"No.  I want you to devote every bit of your attention to getting this situation squared away."

"I have plenty of incentive as it is, trust me.  I'm going to go insane sitting around here with nothing to do!"

"I'm giving you an assignment!  Either do it or give me his name."

"You could always send me on a brief R&R," I suggested hopefully.  "Say, to Tokyo, for three to five weeks?"  I smiled impishly.

He laughed shortly.  "I really do wish I could spare you.  God knows you could use a vacation."  The colonel sobered.  "But there's a push coming.  I'm going to need you operating within three days."

"I'll operate as soon as you let me," I assured him with a tight smile.

"You'll operate as soon as this is dealt with," he told me sternly.  "So deal with it."

"As you wish, my liege."

"'Sir' will do just fine."

"As you wish, sir," I said, adopting an English accent that my bruised throat didn't quite deliver on.

"Well, I need to get back to Post-Op.  I think we're done here."

_Hallelujah!_   "Very good sir."

"And Hawkeye....  You should probably lay off the sauce a little.  If it's not making you feel better, why drink?"

I had to do _something_.  I had to feel like I was in control in _some_ way.  "Advice received," I told him as I stood.  _Received, even though you said you weren't going to harp on it_ , I thought resentfully.

"But not taken," he noted with a shake of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has left a review. Your comments mean so much to me and are really the highlight of my day. I may or may not squeal like a little girl, clap my hands, and grin like a fool every time I get a review.
> 
> Ahem. Anyways. Where were we? Oh yes:

When I returned to the Swamp it occurred to me to wonder where BJ was.  Generally when we worked a night shift we'd be sacked out from 8 a.m. through the afternoon.  On a hunch I meandered to Post-Op, figuring that he may have slept elsewhere if he'd known Sidney would be there in the morning.

Yep.  There he was, asleep on a free bed.  I smiled softly when I saw how his massive feet were peeking out of the blankets on one side of the bed.  I gently shifted the blankets so his feet were covered and straightened, planning to go talk to Reynolds.

"Hawk?" I heard a sleepy BJ ask.

I turned back to him and crouched by his bed, ignoring the discomfort in my rectum.

"Morning sleepyhead."

"Is it still morning?" he wondered blearily.

"Nah, it's mid-afternoon now."

"Oh.  Good."  His brow creased in thought for a moment.  "Oh!  How'd it go?"

"You knew Sidney was coming," I accused.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly.

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"They told me not to!" he said defensively.

I scowled.  "Well.  Let's talk in the Swamp."

"Alright, be there in a minute."

I headed to Reynolds' bed but saw that it was empty.  I checked his chart and was relieved to find that no one had shipped him out under my nose.  I deduced that he must have been out in the compound.  Then a nagging worry took root in the back of my mind.  _There's no way Donner would accost a patient in broad daylight_ , I tried to reassure myself.  He was probably just out for a walk (well, a hop), or going to the latrine (because what mostly ambulatory person wants to use a bedpan in a crowded room?).

I walked outside and did a quick lap around the compound anyway but didn't see him.  That nagging worry got a little louder.  I checked both the enlisted and officers' latrines and asked BJ if he'd seen Reynolds.  ("He was in his bed when I went to sleep.  Now if you're not staying for a show do you mind…?")  As a last ditch option before subjecting myself to a tour of the supply hut and the back of Post-Op, I checked the shower and then the nearly-deserted mess tent.  As it was in between lunch and dinner there were only two people there.  Thankfully, one was Reynolds.

"Ross!" I greeted him breathlessly.  I slid painfully into the seat beside him, nearly upsetting his crutches.  "I've been looking all over for you!"

"Aww, I'm sorry honey.  I been out an' about," he explained quietly.  "Needed a change of scenery.  Been goin' a mite stir crazy."

I frowned guiltily.  It was really selfish of me to be keeping this man here for my own pleasure.  "I'm sorry –" I once again had to stop myself from using a term of endearment; I couldn't afford to get too attached (though that was probably a bit belated).  "I know how boring this place can be.  It's getting to be time for you to go on to Tokyo..." I began.  Technically it was well past that time.

"I surely don't mind stayin' here," he said quickly.  "I don't mean for you to go thinkin' that."

"Well, we might not have any choice," I told him reluctantly.  "I've been suspended.  BJ will be your doctor now.  He's probably going to take one look at your chart and ship you off.  I'm going to see if I can get him to send you to Tokyo... though I might not be able to meet you there.  I'll keep working on that part."

"Suspended?!" he repeated in disbelief.  "What on creation for?"

"Because I wouldn't give my C.O. Donner's name," I said bitterly before thinking to check our surroundings for prying ears.  All clear.

Reynolds pursed his lips.  "Look darlin', I don't want you gettin' hurt or gettin' into trouble on my account."  I started to reply, but he put his hand up.  "No, listen.  A dishonorable discharge wouldn't hurt me near as bad as I'm sure it'd hurt you."

That piqued my curiosity.  "Why not?"

"My parents threw me out when I was 15 'cause they caught me in the bed of my daddy's truck with another boy."  He chuckled humorlessly.  "There's no one left to disappoint."

"When you were _15_?"  That was appalling.  "Where did you go?  What did you do?"

"Said I was 18 an' joined the Army," he said with a laugh.  "I looked big enough to be, that's for sure."

Yeah, I bet he'd had no trouble fooling the Army recruiters with his size, even before he'd finished growing.  The man towered over me and had to weigh well over 200 pounds, all of it muscle.  I looked him up and down appreciatively before dragging my brain kicking and screaming back to the matter at hand.  "What would you do now?"

He quirked his lips.  "Go an' dance in that gay bar in San Francisco," he replied impishly.

I couldn't stop myself from laughing in surprise.  "You'd make a _ton_ of money in San Francisco, let me tell you.  _I'd_ pay."

"Why should you pay when you can get the whole show for free?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a wicked grin.

"Mmm."  _That_ thought was a bit of a turn on.  "Rest assured that I will do _everything_ in my power to get us both to Tokyo.  At the same time."

His grin was tamed into a sweet smile and our eyes met.  I was _still_ stunned by the beauty of his eyes.  And everything else for that matter.

I started leaning in for a kiss before I realized where we were and pulled back with a jerk.  I looked around surreptitiously and was relieved to see that Lieutenant Gwen was still solely focused on the letter she was writing on the far side of the tent.  _Whew_.

I locked eyes with my Adonis when he'd finished his own survey.  His emerald eyes were still wide but there was a flirtatious smile on his face.

"Sorry," I told him quietly, unable to stop one side of my mouth from crooking upwards in reply.  "I just can't seem to help myself around you."  _Oh!_   That reminded me...!  "Oh!  Oh crap!"

Reynolds' eyebrows climbed in surprise and expectation.  "What?"

"I just remembered!  I was supposed to meet BJ... um, a little while ago.  I got distracted looking for you," I admitted sheepishly.

"Ah, well I'm sorry for bein' a distraction," he drawled with that sweet little smile.

"Ross, you can distract me _any_ time," I said with a mischievous grin.

He returned the grin as I stood.  I stealthily put one hand behind his head and stroked the nape of his neck gently before heading for the door.

When I arrived at the Swamp BJ appeared slightly peeved.

"Where have you been?  I opt to miss sleep to talk to you and you disappear!"

"Sorry," I mumbled, picking up a martini glass by the still and rubbing it on my not-exactly-sanitary fatigues.  I decided that there'd be no harm in telling the truth.  "I found Reynolds.  We started talking and I lost track of time."

"Reynolds, your friend with the sprained ankle?"

I filled the glass with our rotgut and brought it to my lips but didn't drink.  "Yeah, that's the one."  It worried me slightly that he called him my friend and not my patient.

"I looked at his chart last night."

"Uh huh."  I hated that this sounded like it was going where I thought it might be going.  I set the glass down untouched.

"You know that's not a grade two sprain."

Yep.  Was I psychic or what?

BJ took my silence as assent.  "It's not very fair to the rest of the wounded that this sprained ankle case gets sent to Tokyo for several weeks because he made friends with his doctor," he said sternly.  Then he added, "I'm honestly surprised that I'm having to say this to _you_ of all people.  I'm kind of disappointed, Hawk.  I thought you didn't play favorites."

I felt bad once he put it like that.  Not, however, bad enough to be willing to throw our rendezvous in Tokyo away without a fight.

"I honestly thought the guy could use a break, if you know what I mean."

"What, is he a battle fatigue case?"

"He's having a rough time of it out there," I fudged.  As far as I knew Reynolds had been doing fine until the night he fell into a foxhole.  After all, he'd been in the Army for half of his life.

"Hawk, at the risk of sounding callous, if we sent everyone who wasn't having a good time in this _war_ on vacation there'd be no one left to fight it.  You know if there was a valid medical reason I'd be all for –"

_I can't believe he just said that_ , I thought at the end of his first sentence.  I didn't bother to listen to the second.  "You're right," I snarled, not letting him finish.  "If we sent everyone who didn't want to fight on vacation we'd have _peace_!  Heaven forbid!"  I threw my hands up.  "But no, you really _were_ right.  You _do_ sound callous," I added angrily.  Granted, this was all theoretical, but that was harsh.  "Basically you're saying that if we can't help them all what's the point in helping one?"

"That's not what I said," BJ rapped out.  "What I'm _saying_ is that your favoritism is unprofessional.  And that I'm unwilling to lie on a medical report just because you made friends with a patient."

I scowled, sinking to my chair as my heart sank to the bottom of my stomach.  BJ, with all his fucking principles, was going to transfer Reynolds out and I'd never see him again.  I'd never share another smile with him or gaze into those amazing green eyes.  I'd never hear his adorable Southern drawl or be able to run my hands over his beautiful body.  _Never_.  For some reason that idea just killed me.

"...Hawk?"

Maybe I'd been living in a fantasy world (at least where Reynolds was concerned) to think that we'd be able to meet up or keep in touch.  Yeah, I guess we could exchange letters for a little while, but that never lasted very long.  Soon enough the letters would taper off and that would be that.

"Hawk."

I wondered if the reason I was so infatuated with the man was because whatever relationship we had remained unconsummated.  If Donner hadn't interrupted us that night would I still feel this strongly?  Would I feel _more_ strongly?  I guessed I'd never find out.

"Hawkeye!"

I jolted back to the Swamp.  "Hmm?"

"Why do you look like I just kicked your puppy?"

"Nothing," I replied obliquely, my mind still on Reynolds.

"For some strange reason that doesn't make me believe you."

I realized then that I could have been drinking for this entire conversation.  What a waste of time.

I stood back up and grabbed the full glass I'd left by the still, then threw back a large shot's worth.  And grimaced.  The alcohol scorched my esophagus the entire way down.

BJ's watchful gaze held unusually high amounts of awkwardness.  After a few minutes of watching me drink in silence he elected to start the conversation anew.  "So, uh.  How'd your chat with Sidney and Colonel Potter go?"

"Swimmingly," I said, voice dripping sarcasm.  "I'm suspended but not transferred.  Then again, you already knew I was suspended yesterday, didn't you?"  I sent him a piercing glare and headed to my cot with the martini glass, placing the full carafe nearby on my wooden shelf for easy refills.

He ignored my last comment.  "They were going to transfer you?!"

"You haven't been getting the carbon copy of the report?"

"Believe it or not," he told me bitterly, "I'm not consulted with administrative concerns of the hospital.  This was apparently above my pay grade."

"Well consider yourself advised," I snapped.  "I'm suspended until I either solve the problem myself or give Potter his name.  If I don't do it in time they may transfer me."

"So... _do_ it!"

"Wow, why didn't I think of that?!"

"Well, what's stopping you?!"

Hell.  I might as well tell him.  Potter and Sidney knew.  "He – he's blackmailing me."

" _Blackmailing_ you?!"  BJ seemed as flabbergasted as Sidney.  "What on earth could he possibly blackmail you with?!"

"Something that I don't want anyone to know!"  I was proud that I managed to stop myself from saying ' _duh_ ' out loud.

In all honesty, I _did_ wish that I could tell him.  It would be nice to not have to hide a part of myself from my best friend.  But I'd ruined more than one treasured relationship with that truth before, and BJ was far too valuable to me to lose.  I would do everything in my power to keep him from finding out.  Yes, he might have had no problem with it, might've been unaffected by the news, might've even been the perfect confidant.  But I would not – could not – take that chance if there was even the remotest possibility that it could change things between us for the worse.  Not with my best friend; not with the only person keeping me sane in this war.

"Oh come on Hawk, it can't be _that_ bad."

"It would ruin my life," I told him seriously.

"I find that hard to believe," he scoffed.

"I thought you wanted to help," I reminded him irritably.

"Sorry," he apologized, chagrinned.  "Well, what does this guy have on you?"

"Evidence," I said shortly.

"What kind of evidence?"

"Damning."

He sighed, probably frustrated at my lack of candor.  "So we need a plan," he said idly after spinning his wheels a moment.

I gave him a small smile.  It was encouraging to hear that 'we' – I felt a little less alone in this thing.  I mean, yes, Reynolds' neck was in the noose with mine, but I couldn't come out and tell him exactly what had happened.  I'd only known him a week.  Not to mention that I really wanted the guy.  I couldn't tell him that I was less of a man and expect him to still want me back.

"Is there any way to dispose of this evidence?" BJ asked me.

"I thought of that, and I'm not sure.  I don't know where it's kept, I don't know if it's, um, still there, or if it's been sent off already, and I don't know if he has, uh... copies."

I watched my friend adding up the facts.  "He has a picture of you that he's using as leverage?" he guessed.

I scowled.  This is what happened when you talked to someone.  They learned too much.

"I don't....  Hawk....  Really, I don't see what you could have done that would be that bad.  Did he catch you on your Jack-the-Ripper night or something?"

A smile played across my face.  Thankfully I was rescued from having to reply by the P.A. system's timely announcement:  "We regret to inform you that dinner is now being served.  (Run for your lives.)"

"Saved by the bell!" I cheered, sitting up with alacrity.

BJ shook his head with a wry grin.  "Let me guess:  you suddenly want Donner."

I froze, eyes wide, and felt the unique sensation of blood draining from my face.  BJ knew his name!  How had he found out?!  What had I missed?!  Next Donner would tell everyone that I was a sexual deviant and I'd get dishonorably discharged and this entire thing would be wasted and – and... _and this is not helping you calm down_ , the more practical side of my conscious chimed in.  I swallowed the lump in my throat, filled my starving lungs, and tuned in to what BJ was saying.

"Hawk?  Relax, okay?  Breathe.  There you go, take some more deep breaths.  Everything's fine.  We don't have to go to dinner."

_Dinner_ , I realized.  He'd said _dinner_.  _Damn_.  I wiped a hand down my face.  I'd nearly given myself a heart attack because BJ had asked me to dinner.

"No, dinner's fine," I assured him.  "Just... give me a second."

"Take your time.  If you want I can go get takeout," he offered.  "I'll get us a couple trays to go."

"No, that's okay," I told him.  "Thanks."

After I caught my breath and poured another shot of rubbing alcohol down my throat we made the arduous journey to the mess tent.  Upon entering I immediately scanned the crowd in search of Donner and was extremely relieved to not see him.

I led BJ to the end of the line, eventually grabbing my tray and silverware as the people ahead of us shuffled forward.  Once we got to the food, though, I didn't see a single thing that would be easy on my jaw or throat.

"Hey Igor."

"Yessir?" he asked nervously.  I had no clue why he of all people should be nervous around me.

I leaned in so that perhaps the entire mess tent wouldn't hear my request.  "Do you have any semi-solids fixed?"

"Any what?"

"Semi-solid food.  You know, what you give to the patients who can't chew easily."

"Oh, no sir.  We didn't have a request for it."

Well crap.  "Oh.  Do you have any leftover creamed corn?  Or tapioca pudding?"

"No sir, we ran out."

"Marvelous.  Well, put in a request for a semi-solid diet for the next few days at least."  I started to walk away with an empty tray.

"Uh, sir?"

I turned back around and raised my eyebrows at him.

"We need a form filled out by the patient's nurse to do that."

BJ, standing there with a half-filled tray, jumped into the conversation.  "How about if the patient's doctor beats you with this tray until you cook some semi-solid food."

"Oh!  Uh, yessir, we'll – we'll start preparing a restricted diet plan next meal."

"What about _this_ meal?" BJ asked testily.

"It's fine," I said, waving a hand at Igor.  "The patient's not all that hungry."  I left my empty tray by the coffee dispenser and fixed myself a mug.  "Thanks anyway Beej."

"I hate that you're going to go hungry.  If we got you something for the pain do you think you could eat?"

"I don't want anything for the pain," I objected.

We pulled up next to Colonel Potter and Radar.

"It's not all that bad," I assured him as we had a seat.  "Honestly, my throat's worse than my jaw."  I winced when my butt impacted the bench.  _And my rectum is worse than my throat_ , I finished silently.

I saw BJ exchange a significant look with the colonel.  Radar watched me with alarm.

"Yet you keep subjecting it to our rotgut," BJ pointed out.

"We could hook me to the still with an IV," I suggested.

He rolled his eyes.  "Not exactly what I was implying."

Colonel Potter jumped into the conversation.  "Pierce, where's your food?"

"I wasn't hungry," I told him with a tight smile, eyeing Radar's plate.  It appeared that the kid had already made it about halfway through the mountain of dreck on his tray.  I wondered, not for the first time, where he put it all.

"You need to eat _something_ , son.  You've already missed at least one meal today.  Now, I want you to go back up there and get you something to eat," Potter ordered.

"Colonel," BJ replied, to my embarrassment, "there's nothing he can comfortably eat up there."

"Oh."  The C.O. looked at my bruises appraisingly.  "Well, get them to break out the semi-solids."

"They're going to," BJ told him.  "Next meal."

"Have them do it _this_ meal, then.  And if it's a problem, send them my way."

"It's really no big deal," I assured him.  "I'm fine."  I hadn't eaten at all that day but for some reason I truly wasn't hungry.  A little lightheaded perhaps, and slightly nauseated, but not hungry.  My appetite had been kind of hit or miss since the first attack, once I thought about it.  I'd been skipping a lot of meals.

Out of my peripheral vision I saw that Radar was still staring at me.  I turned to find that he had the strangest expression on his face.  I couldn't place it to save my life.

"What's up?" I asked him in an undertone before Colonel Potter could insist on another way to get food into me.

Radar jerked like I'd slapped him, eyes growing wide.  "Nothing!" he responded in a high-pitched voice, looking ready to make a run for it.

I put a hand on his arm to placate him.  "Relax, Radar," I instructed, puzzled.  "Did I step on your hamster or something?"  If I were Potter I'd say he was acting like a skittish colt.

"No sir," he squeaked, fixing his eyes on his tray and diving back into his meal to the obvious occlusion of all else, yet with a curious indifference to what was on his plate.  I couldn't remember the last time the kid had showed that little lust toward his food.

Radar was saved from further prodding by Donner's arrival to the mess tent.  He swept right past my table, less than three feet from me, and it took all of my self-control not to bolt the moment I noticed him.  My lungs froze, my heart felt like it was trying to leap out of my chest and run a marathon, and I was suddenly quite dizzy.  I yanked my gaze down to the safety of the table, put my elbows on the wood, and propped my face in my hands, obscuring my eyes from the world.  Unfortunately this made my back and shoulders crawl, to know that I was leaving myself open and unprotected – never mind that the mess hall was probably the safest place in camp at the moment.

I heard someone say my name.  Then more than one someone.  Sadly, formulating any sort of reply was beyond me at the moment.  I tried to focus on calming my ragged breathing instead.

A hand touched my arm and my entire body jerked.  I couldn't stand it any longer.  I had to _go_.  _Run run run_ ; the mantra resumed.

I stood shakily and loped from the mess tent to the Swamp.  Once there I sat abruptly on my cot and pulled my shaking legs up toward my chest, hugging my knees and ignoring the burning sensation in my rectum.   _We need to stop meeting like this,_ I thought silently to my cot.  Then I paused.  _You know you're crazy when:  you're **thinking** to an inanimate object_.  I shook my head at myself.

My next thought was of the Phenobarbital in my footlocker.  _No_ , I told myself firmly.  It would make things easier to deal with, yes, but I couldn't go doping myself every time I saw a kid who lived in my compound.  I needed to handle it instead of letting the drug handle it for me.  I couldn't learn to cope that way.  If I could just make it through this time it would be easier to make it through next time.  And so on and so forth.

I heard the door to the Swamp open and I nearly fell off the cot trying to turn to see who it was.  Of course it was BJ.

"You should've stayed and finished eating," I told him mildly, ignoring my wavering voice, my thundering heart, my shaking limbs, and the tightness in my throat.

"Yeah?  Then what would that have made me?"

"Full?" I suggested.

He chuckled quietly.  "No," he said with gentle amusement.  "I believe the phrase you were undoubtedly searching for was 'a bad friend.'"  He had a seat on the foot of his cot and settled in.  The way he wound up sprawled over it reminded me strongly of its previous occupant.  I used to never be able to look at that corner of the Swamp without thinking of Trapper.  Now it just reminded me of BJ.  It was a bit saddening that a memory could be reassigned so easily.  Which made me wonder:  how long would the supply hut belong to Donner in my mind before I could erase that association?

I shook my head and returned to the present conversation.  "I'd rather one of us not go hungry.  I appreciate your noble sacrifice and all, but go eat."

" _I'd_ rather not leave you here all alone and terrified."

"I'm no longer terrified," I bluffed.  "I've been downgraded to 'slightly frightened.'"

"You sure looked terrified when I opened that door a second ago."

I frowned.  Why'd he have to be so damned perceptive?

"So what was going on with Radar?" he asked, obviously trying to distract me from my fears.

I played along.  Heck, maybe it would help.  "I don't know.  I couldn't get a thing out of him."

"I haven't seen him look at food with such little enthusiasm in the last ice age."

"Yeah, I noticed that.  I would wonder if he's sick, except that he seemed to be doing fine until we got there."

"That's what I thought.  Well, we can just keep an eye on him and go from there."

"Sounds like a plan, doctor."

"Thank you, doctor."

Huh.  "You know, you're pretty good.  I think my pulse is back down into the triple digits."  My heart had returned from its marathon and reclaimed its residence in my chest, though it was still pounding with an abnormal intensity.  It was a bit easier to inflate my lungs.  I pried my arms from around my knees and tried uncurling a little on my cot.  I was pleased to find that I felt only slightly more vulnerable than I had when in a tighter fetal position.  Not enough to unfold my legs, mind you, but getting there.

"Oh good, and thank you.  That'll be $300 please."

"That's a pretty steep bill, doc," I said with a chuckle.

"When you have a consultation with the master, you must pay the master's consultation fee."

I laughed.  "I see.  Well, I could just start charging you 50₵ per drink.  I should be in the black by the time the war ends and we go home."

"50₵?!" he said in mock outrage.  "Are you trying to bankrupt me?!"

"When you have a consultation with the still, you must pay its master's consultation fee."

That elicited a laugh from him.

"Hey!" I said suddenly, staring intently at my hand.

"What?" he asked, following suit to see what I could be talking about.

"I stopped shaking."  For the most part, at least.  Compared to the earlier tremors that had shaken my cot, the slight trembling that my hand was exhibiting wasn't even noteworthy.

"Oh.  Well good!"

"You know, you're a great surgeon," I began.

"I do know that, and thank you," he interjected quickly.

I snickered.  "But I wonder if you didn't miss your calling as a psychologist."

"Well, since I've only ever practiced on _you_ , I would have to be called a _child_ psychologist."

"Oh ha-ha."

"I know, I'm just so funny you can't stand it."

"And so modest!"

"It's what makes me so remarkable," he deadpanned.

We shared grins in silence for a moment.

"That reminds me!" BJ said, out of the blue.  " _Why_ , pray tell, does the tent smell like vomit?"

It took me a minute to hunt down his new train of thought and jump aboard.  I addressed the most pertinent issue first.  "How does that conversation remind you of the smell of vomit?!"

"I didn't say it was the conversation."

"The _silence_ reminds you of the smell of vomit?"

"No, the _smell of vomit_ reminds me of the smell of vomit."

"Oh.  I don't smell it anymore."

"Probably because it was yours," he said, a bit accusingly.

"No, probably because I've been in here longer."

"You beat me here by 45 seconds at the most."

"No, I mean I've spent more time in here today than you," I clarified.

"Oh.  Yeah, that's probably true.  But it _was_ yours," he stated for confirmation.

"Yeah, I had a bad morning.  Well, afternoon."

"You've had a couple of those recently," he said blandly.

"Mhmm."  He was going to have to push and drag me into this conversation; I wasn't volunteering.

"Now that we've established that the excessive drinking doesn't help are you planning on continuing?"

"We've established that it doesn't help me _forget_ ," I allowed, "but not necessarily that it doesn't help."

"In what way can it possibly be doing any good?" he asked disparagingly.

I struggled to put it into words.  "It... lets me feel like... like I have control of _something_.  Even if it's only something that goes into my body."

BJ took on that pained expression.  "Do you think that need will go away once we solve the problem?" he asked carefully.

"I would hope so," I said frankly.  "Otherwise I'll die of liver failure before we get out of Korea."

He looked a bit disconcerted.  "Thanks for making me feel better about this."

I thought the conversation could use some levity.  "It's the least I could do," I assured him.  "I threw up on your bed."

BJ immediately jumped out of his cot with a disgusted expression.  I'd been planning on keeping the prank going for a little while but I couldn't stop myself from dying laughing at the look on his face.  Soon I had tears rolling down my face and I still couldn't stop.

"You should have seen the look" – I gasped for breath – "on your face!"  And I laughed some more.

Until BJ picked up his pillow and approached for the killing blow.  The pillow wasn't what scared me shitless.  It was that his mock anger gave him a disturbingly familiar expression.  My brain superimposed Donner's face over BJ's in a mental image that I bet I wouldn't be able to forget for a very long time.

As soon as it registered I stopped laughing and scrambled backward off my cot – again.  I landed hard on my butt and smashed into the wooden shelves I had resting on the floor, where I'd placed the full carafe of gin earlier that day for convenience's sake.  The carafe tipped forward over my shoulder, soaking me liberally with alcohol.  Thankfully my chest and lap broke its fall and the glass remained intact.

The impromptu bath had the same effect that a bucket of ice water would: it shocked my system and dispelled my panic.  I lay in a pretty undignified pose with my back against the shelf, my butt on the floor, and my lower legs still on my cot, trying to catch my breath once my lungs were cooperating again.  My rectum protested the position strenuously.

BJ had dropped the pillow and put his hands out in a placating gesture as soon as my face had reflected my panic.  Then he sent me a look of heartfelt pity.

_I must look pretty pathetic,_ was the first thing through my mind when I saw his expression.  The second was:  _Oh thank God, I don't see Donner's face!_

"Hawk?" BJ asked cautiously.  "You okay?"

"Doing better than I was before I got soaked in lighter fluid," I admitted.

"Well that's good to hear," he said, approaching slowly.  "Now, why don't we get you in the shower before someone lights a match."


	7. Chapter 7

"Care to join me?" I asked flirtatiously as I stripped off the alcohol-soaked clothes in preparation for the shower, attempting to hide the plea in that question.

BJ, that sweet man, played along.  "That's a proposition I just can't turn down," he fired back with a sultry smile.

_If he only knew_ , my mind remarked facetiously; I smirked.  Not that I carried a torch for BJ, mind you – as far as I knew BJ was completely straight, and it's just futile to fall for straight men (especially hopelessly devoted, married straight men) – but it was fun to flirt with him all the same.

As we gathered our towels and BJ undressed I felt the familiar anxiety that had begun to accompany trips out of the Swamp.  It was a bit intensified tonight, as I'd just seen Donner and had a mini meltdown all in the space of the past hour.  I couldn't completely shake it until we opened the door of the shower to find the last person in Korea that either of us could possibly have expected.

"Well well well, what have we here, Beej?" I intoned.  "Did we chance upon the annual shower of one Radar O'Reilly?"

"I think you may be right, Hawk," BJ replied.  "It certainly _looks_ like a Radar.  I'm a bit shocked at the setting though.  I'm not sure I've ever seen one inside these stalls."

The kid comically tried to cover everything up at once and finally settled on one arm across his chest hiding his nipples and the other hand obscuring his genitals.  "Aw, come on guys, cut it out!"

"Radar!" BJ exclaimed with a laugh, "we're _doctors_!"

"We've seen it all!" I continued from where he left off.  "Relax, finish your shower!  We promise not to look."

"Any more than we already have," BJ teased unabashedly.  Glancing at me, he gestured grandly to the empty stall.  "After you."

I toed off my boots and hung up my bathrobe.  Trying to ignore Radar's gawking and BJ's sudden scowl, I stepped into the empty stall and began soaping up.  Radar peeked down over the partition and ogled me and my bruises in a fashion generally considered taboo in public facilities.

"Radar," I said irritably, "if you stay like that I'll start charging by the minute."

"Oooh!" he said, seemingly startled that I had noticed his cleverly concealed staring.  He returned his wide eyes to my face.  "Sorry!" he told me.  "I – uh – I was just finished.  Have a good shower!"  He shoved himself into his clothes without drying off and made a hasty escape.

I watched with raised brows, only looking to BJ when the door had closed on Radar's departure.  "Do I look that bad?"

BJ stepped into the shower stall that Radar had just vacated with a shrug.  "You don't look _good_ ," he answered, voice taut.  I suspected that seeing the full extent of my bruises simultaneously made him angry all over again.  "I'm sorry for horsing around earlier," he added after a moment of silence.

"No, it's fine.  Normally that would have been no problem."

"I know that.  But we're not exactly running on normalcy right here, right now.  I should have remembered that before I grabbed the pillow."

"It wasn't the pillow, actually," I told him with a frown.

"Then what was it?"

"The look on your face."

"He looks like me?" BJ asked, startled and calculating at the same time.

"No, just that... predatory expression.  And now I can't _un_ -see it," I added in frustration when the image flashed through my mind again.

BJ appeared spooked.  _Maybe 'predatory' was not the description to go with here_ , I realized.  Or it could have been that I'd thought of my attacker when I saw his face.  _Change the subject_ , my mind directed.  Good advice, that.  My brain – it has its moments.

"So what do you think is going on with Radar?" I asked casually.

The relief in BJ's voice was palpable.  "I don't know, but I was half expecting him to start foaming at the mouth at any second."

"No kidding."  I mulled it over for a bit.  "It wasn't like he hadn't seen the bruises on my face before," I said, using my friend as a sounding board.

"Right."

"But at dinner he was staring at me like he had just noticed I was beaten up.  And was unnerved by it."

"Yep."

"Nothing changed between the last two dinners."

"Nope."

It struck me, then:  Radar must have listened in on something I really wished he hadn't heard.  "Oh," I said as realization dawned.  "Oh no."

"What?" BJ asked warily.

"What if Radar heard the report Sidney gave Colonel Potter?"  Our naïve young Iowan farm boy didn't know how to process something like rape, especially if he thought that it had happened to his hero.

"Ohhh.  Yeah... I think you may be right."

"What a mess."  I'd have to corner him alone sometime and set the record straight:  I wasn't raped.

"Yeah.  Usually his nosiness works in our favor."

I gave a bitter laugh.  "Well it certainly didn't work in _his_ favor either this time.  I bet this is tearing him up."  Poor kid.

"It would be harsh to hear that about your idol," BJ agreed.

"I'll have to talk to him tomorrow."

"What will you tell him?"

"That I wasn't raped," I said flatly.

"Look, Hawk.  About that...."

That was my cue to leave.  "I'm all done here.  Any traces of gin are either down the drain or in my stomach."  I stepped out of the stall and snagged my towel, drying myself with haste.

"Hold on a sec, I'm almost finished," BJ said, a bit crossly.

I thought through heading back to the Swamp on my own and decided it would be safer to wait for him.  As long as he didn't try to corner me with that 'rape' shit.

"You know, 'Denial ain't just a river in Egypt,'" he quoted.

"Shakespeare?" I quipped.

He rolled his eyes.  "Mark Twain, you illiterate lout."

"Well, while I appreciate that you're thinking of what _you_ think are my best interests... for God's sake, stop.  I've built my own little unpleasant version of an even more miserable reality and if people don't stop poking at it it's going to come down around my ears."

"So then you admit that it's the truth?" he pressed.

"I'm not admitting anything," I said exasperatedly.  "There's nothing to admit.  Are you done yet?"

"Alright, alright, fine," he grumbled irritably.

I decided to reward myself for escaping another 'rape'-themed conversation with my sanity intact by spending some quality time with Reynolds.  After swinging by the Swamp for some clean clothes I ditched BJ and headed for Post-Op.

"Hey Ross," I greeted the gorgeous sergeant with a warm smile.

He was sitting upright in his bed, one knee pulled up close to his chest, staring blankly at the opposite wall.  He blinked a few times and turned to look at me.  I think he tried to smile but failed dismally.

"Hey sugar," he said listlessly.

Alarmed, I sat next to him on his bed.  "What's wrong?" I asked worriedly.  I resisted the urge to take his hand.  Or stroke his cheek.  Or run my fingers through his hair.

He shook his head.  "Just.  Um."  He scowled.  "Lost one of my men."

"Just now?" I looked to the desk to see that Frank was on duty, serenely writing at the desk, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.

"'Bout a half hour ago."

"I'm sorry," I said genuinely, patting his knee despite myself.  "What was his name?"

"Corporal Shepherd."  He sighed.  "He's… he was good people.  Always could count on him bein' cool, calm, an' collected no matter what hell was rainin' down all 'round us.  Had no kin to speak of," Reynolds added wearily.  "I reckon that's a blessin'."

If I recalled correctly the corporal had been BJ's patient and had spent over 3 ½ hours on the operating table.  Had he been Frank's patient I would have checked up behind him, but BJ was a capable surgeon.  Sometimes there was only so much medicine could do to save a life.

I didn't know what to say to make my Adonis feel better.  My answer to that kind of misery generally came in the form of 190-proof poison.  Inspiration struck me.  "Buy you a drink, big boy?"

Surprised, he considered the offer for all of a second.  "Y'know, that sounds like a plan."

I handed him his robe first this time, then his crutches.  He accepted them with a sheepish smile, obviously reminded as I had been of the last time we'd been in that situation.

Before heading out I located Nurse Baker, who was distributing clean bedpans on the opposite side of the room.  "I'm stealing your patient for a while," I said with a nod in Reynolds' direction, adding playfully, "Don't wait up."

"Whatever you say, doctor," she replied sullenly.

Somehow I got the impression that she was still unhappy about how I'd snapped at her during our last O.R. session.  I knew that I probably owed her an apology, but I was finding it difficult to care at the moment.  My emotions were already overloaded with just keeping me sane; I didn't need to add further complications.  My eyes settled on the beautiful brunette complication waiting for me in the aisle and one corner of my mouth curled upward.  Any more complications than I already had, at least.

Reynolds followed me out of Post-Op and we made the trek to Rosie's.  I slipped the proprietor $5 for the use of her quiet – and private – back room.  We still were too cautious to do anything blatantly sexual but at least felt comfortable not policing our expressions.  We pulled two chairs up to a table and sat together side-by-side.  Reynolds slung his arm over the back of my chair and I rested my cheek against his meaty bicep.  My right side felt as if it was pleasantly ablaze everywhere our bodies touched, from our knees up to our shoulders.  The close contact brought on a case of light tremors that both of us ignored.  He also graciously overlooked the hickeys on my neck.  I saw him glance at them a few times but he thankfully didn't comment.  I wasn't sure what I would have said if he had.

We stayed at Rosie's, talking and drinking, until around 2 a.m.  I think I helped him keep his mind off of his dead friend.  I know that he kept my mind from wandering down the dark paths it had been frequenting of late.

The trip back to Post-Op was quite the adventure.  I doubted that Reynolds could have walked straight _without_ crutches.  I knew I couldn't.  Miraculously, neither of us wiped out completely and when we were berated by Nurse Shari for coming in so late – and so drunk – she didn't notice the dirt on the knees of Reynolds' pants.

We shared secretive smiles before I departed for the Swamp.

 

* * *

  

"Hiya, Radar!"

It was the following afternoon and I was cornering the poor kid in his own office.  I'd somehow missed him in the mess tent for both breakfast and lunch.  Or he'd ducked me, which seemed more probable with each missed meal.

I was trying to make this talk easy and painless, so it was necessary, of course, to appear as upbeat as possible without being suspicious.

He nearly fell out of his chair when he heard my voice.  "Ah!  H– Hawkeye!  Uh, what – what are you doing here?"

I took a page out of Sidney Freedman's book.  "I can't come visit a friend?" I asked, feigning innocence.  I leaned on the edge of his desk and fixed him with an earnest gaze.

"Oh!  Well, uh, sure!  Are you – are you here to see Colonel Potter?"  He sounded somewhere between hopeful and desperate.

"No silly, I'm here to see _you_!"  I had to fix this train wreck.  This awkwardness that Radar had toward me had to stop.  I missed the old Radar – the one whose hero worship of me hadn't been turned abruptly on its head by that four letter word.  Not that I particularly desired the hero worship bit, but hey, at least the kid had good taste in heroes.

"Oh, uh.  Then what do you need?!  Telegraph?  Phone call?  Requisition form?"  Terror was creeping into his tone.

"I don't _need_ anything.  I just want to talk to you."  I was trying to both keep my voice enthusiastic _and_ pretend that I didn't notice that he was practically having a stroke.

"Oh!  Um, talk about what, sir?"

" _Sir_?  Radar, you know you don't have to ' _sir'_ me," I chided him gently.  "I'm the same person I was last week.  Nothing has changed."

"I know that," he said defensively.

"You're not acting like you know that."

He clammed up, looking defiantly at something slightly to the right of my neck and stealing glances at the handprint there.

I sighed.  "Radar, I know that you may have overheard something that would bother you," I said in as comforting a manner as I could muster, all earlier enthusiasm abandoned.

Alarmed, he yanked his eyes to the ground.

_Uh huh_.  "You know that all rumors you may hear aren't true, right?"

He looked up at me, seemingly shocked.  "But they said – Colonel Potter and Major Freedman both said –" he cut himself off abruptly.

"They were mistaken.  That didn't happen," I told him gravely.

"So, uh – so you weren't – weren't...."

"I wasn't raped," I finished very, very quietly.

"But – but they both said you _were_!"  He sounded scandalized.  I knew he had a lot of respect for them – for all of us – and was having a hard time reconciling this difference of opinions.

"Well, they were wrong," I assured him firmly.  "I was there; I should know.  Besides, even if... even if that happens to someone, it wouldn't mean that the person isn't him– or herself anymore.  They may act differently for a time but they're still the same person at heart."

"But...."

I gave him a little time to process that.

"Uh...."

Maybe a little more.

"So you, uh, you weren't..."

So much for that lesson sinking in.  "I wasn't raped, Radar!"  I whispered it in as mild a manner as possible but a slight amount of irritation may have shown through.

"Okay, okay," he said, putting his hands up in a pacifying gesture.

"So there's no reason to act spooky around me anymore, right?" I prompted him.

He hesitated, then answered with more confidence in his voice than he'd had in the last 24 hours combined.  "Right.  You're right, Hawk.  Sorry."

There we go, we had a 'Hawk' – time to call it a day and get the hell out of there before he could ask me if I was really _really_ sure I hadn't been raped.

"Don't mention it," I told him with a fake smile.  I hoped he never would again.

 

* * *

 

The next day was my last with Ross Reynolds.  Not only was BJ sending him away, but he had proclaimed him fully recovered and was sending him back to the front.

I was heartbroken.  Yes, intellectually I knew that he was career Army and had survived 15 years as an infantryman before we'd met – hell, this wasn't even his first war – but I still couldn't stand the thought of him getting killed out there.  It seemed that I'd utterly failed to keep myself at any sort of a distance from him.  My chest ached in a way that I hadn't felt since Carlye had left me.  I knew I'd probably never see him again – even if nothing happened to him – and it seemed to physically hurt.  I remembered why they called it 'heartache.'

It didn't help that in the back of my mind I was replaying Tommy's visit and calculating how long it had taken him to come back wounded and die on my table.  I felt like my nerves were walking a tightrope and there was someone down below with a straightjacket ready to catch me when they failed.

"Don't forget to write me," Reynolds reminded me for at least the third time as we meandered slowly to the Jeep that would ferry the recovered patients to their respective companies.

I felt a smile spreading over my features despite my low mood.  At least I wasn't the only one who had it bad.  "Only every day," I assured him quietly.  "Don't get yourself killed please.  For me."  I doubt I managed to hide the plea in my voice.

Reynolds reached out and stroked my arm under the guise of a farewell pat.  I twitched imperceptibly at the contact, but it was also an effort not to grab his hand and hold it.  And maybe kiss it.  And stroke it across my cheek.

_Down, boy_ , I told myself.

Instead of minding my own advice I reached out my arm and settled it on the small of his back, ostensibly steering him to the Jeep.  In return he reached his hand behind me and draped it over my shoulder in what was presumably an innocent, heterosexual gesture of camaraderie.  I didn't flinch that time.  Ironically, if anyone did take note of our overly-affectionate farewell, I knew it would be chalked up to my demonstrative personality, as usual.  Go figure.

"I'll be fine," he replied.  "I promise."

My smile faded.  "I'll miss you," I told him, sotto voce.

"I'll miss you too," he replied in kind.

The driver beeped the Jeep's horn.  It looked like everyone else had piled in.

I turned to face Reynolds and grabbed his hand in something that was more of a caress than a shake.  With a final wave the gorgeous sergeant climbed into the vehicle and was whisked away from me.  I felt cheated out of my goodbye kiss.

I was watching the Jeep pull off, one hand still held in the air, when I saw BJ approach from the direction of Post-Op.  He had the strangest expression on his face.  I dropped my arm and childishly turned away from him, heading for the Swamp.  He followed me in and watched me silently as I poured myself a martini.

After a few minutes of agitated pacing (and several shots worth of gin) I was the one to break the silence.  I was never very good at silence.  (I'm sure that factored into some part of his plan.)

"Did you know that before you came here one of my best childhood friends died on my operating table?"

BJ seemed startled.  I guess that wasn't what he was expecting to hear.  "No, I didn't know that.  I'm sorry.  That must have been hard."

"It was the first time I cried over here," I confirmed dolefully.  "There was nothing I could do to save him.  It was like fate just deposited him in front of me moments before his death as a big 'fuck you.'  And this was right after he'd come by to visit, of course."

"How better to twist the knife?" BJ sympathized.

"And if I lose – I mean, if Ross... I just don't want to have to cry over him too, you know?"

BJ frowned but remained silent, at a loss for words.

_I always knew I was a hard act to follow_ , I thought when the pensive, gloomy silence stretched on.  But, really, what do you say to something like that?

'I'm sure he'll be fine'?  That would be a lie; nothing in life is certain, as they say, and life is certainly not certain in war.

'He'd go to a better place'?  Evidence, please.

"Buy you a drink, sailor-san?" BJ asked solemnly.

I pressed a smile onto my face.  "I thought you'd never ask."

We spent the rest of the day at the Officers' Club and, when that got old, Rosie's.  By the time BJ's midnight shift rolled around he had me safely bundled into my bed in a drunken stupor.

The push started the next day.


	8. Chapter 8

The push was on.  Wounded started pouring in around 8 a.m. and the flood showed no signs of stopping.  I tried to insinuate myself into surgery at the beginning of the day but Colonel Potter practically chased me out of the scrub room (to the amusement of our uninformed and perplexed colleagues).

I stayed sober all morning and early afternoon, knowing that he would be forced to call on me at any time.  I had to sit and twiddle my thumbs until then though, and that infuriated me.  If that stubborn old fart would come down off his high horse I could be helping them save lives already.  I decided that if he didn't send for me by late afternoon I'd scrub up and claim a gurney anyway.  By then they'd have been operating for eight hours and might be amenable to some help, free of charge.

In the meantime I had a few hours to kill.  I tried visiting with Radar as he did his paperwork, scrounged for supplies, and ran errands for those in the O.R., but he eventually got tired of having me under his little feet and had banished me from the office a bit before noon.  I wandered the quiet compound aimlessly for a time.  I'd slowly become more comfortable over the past two Donner-free days and unwisely felt confident moving about camp unchaperoned once again.

After polishing off a cold sandwich from the kitchen (they didn't serve a hot meal when the majority of the camp was occupied in the O.R., after all) I restlessly took a look around the nearly deserted compound for inspiration.  The staff was playing catch-up in the short lull between waves of choppers and ambulances, so the only action was going on near Pre-Op.  And Colonel Potter had made it crystal clear that I was not to be caught dead in that area.

I fleetingly considered pulling a prank on Margaret and/or Frank while her tent was unguarded and the camp empty of witnesses.  When that thought tried to mosey on along I enthusiastically chased it down and rode it to the ground.  I hatched out a plan that Trapper would have been proud of.  I knew that because it would be rectifying a shared tragedy that had occurred before he left.  While we'd been quite pleased with the epic chain of pranks we'd set into motion on one of Margaret and Frank's date nights, one little piece of that chain had fallen somewhat short.  Or at least I thought it had; when we'd caught an earful for our shenanigans the next day, a head of hair full of pudding had not been among the list of complaints, leading me to believe that the pudding-in-the-pillow shtick had been less than successful.  And what better time to set that disappointment to rights than the present?

I returned to the deserted kitchen to scout for the perfect pillow stuffer.  After some surreptitious snooping through the cooler I came across a vat of some off-white soupy substance that smelled vaguely like bacon.  Something meant to resemble gravy, perhaps?  I grabbed a pail and strained to upend the vat over top of it.  The stuff was heavy!  I was expecting it to flow about as quickly as molasses, but it surprised me; it was quite a bit more liquid than I'd previously thought.  The mess practically flew out of the container, hitting the pail, the floor, and my boots with speed and splashing upwards.  From my stooped position I watched it hit the far side of the pail and rebound, hurtling up toward me as if in slow motion.  I jerked back, but not fast enough; it coated me liberally from my ribcage to my hair, and I was lucky that I'd reflexively closed my eyes because I found the mess abruptly dripping down my face.  I quickly tilted the vat back upright and set it down on the floor to better survey my disaster, mopping my face with one hand and slicking my hair back to keep the gunk out of my eyes, feeling somewhere beyond disgusting.  With an insincere promise to myself to come back and clean up the mess once I was clean and no longer smelling like cooked pig I headed to the Swamp to ditch the clothes and grab my towel.  I spent the time in transit cursing that jinxed prank.

I was in the shower soaping up pretty much my entire head when I heard the tent door open and close.  Frowning, I put my head under the faucet to rinse the soap from my face.  Before I could finish I felt an all-too-familiar hand grip me by the neck.  My eyes flew open of their own accord, instantly stinging from the soapsuds, and I gasped, inhaling some hot water.  I started to cough until Donner's hand tightened, cutting off my airway.  My lungs spasmed and burned and I was well on my way to panic when a little voice in my head whispered _No_.  I remembered some of the ideas I had come up with the numerous times I'd lain awake and tortured myself over what I could have done differently.  Well, suddenly I had the opportunity to put them into practice.  I'd really have preferred to skip the whole thing and keep it purely theoretical but here was that chance anyway.

I started by grabbing the pinky finger of the hand he was using to choke me and pulling it sideways with all of my might.  Apparently he found that mildly irritating because he squeezed my neck tighter and sent the hardest punch in the history of mankind (I swear) at my head.  It impacted on the side of my face by my left eye and ripped my throat out of his left hand's grasp, sending me bouncing off a shower stall and into the floor.  That fireworks celebration I caught six days previous had a repeat showing in my head.  In fact, that was all I could see out of my left eye, and if I hadn't been so worried about making it through the next few minutes I would have been terrified of becoming a one-eyed surgeon.  I also tasted blood, possibly from a split lip or a bitten tongue suffered on the rebound off the wall.  My entire mouth area smarted fiercely so I was having trouble pinning down the injured site.

I wound up curled up near the door, half in and half out of the first stall, coughing my lungs up.  Or at least some of the water that had gotten in said lungs.  Seeing how close I was to the door was like a shot of adrenaline to my heart.  Never mind that I was naked, wet, and soapy.  It didn't even occur to me to be self-conscious of that.  That doorway was escape and safety.  Unfortunately it was blocked by a combat boot complete with foot, leg, and tall teenager attached.

Donner smirked down at me and I realized what a sight I must have been.  My eyes were stinging and watering furiously and I was pretty sure my left eye was suing for divorce from the rest of my face, because it still wouldn't cooperate.  Momentarily stymied, I took a minute to cough some more through yet another bruised trachea while my hand felt around to see if my left eye was still in its socket.  _Ow_.  It was.

"Let's try this again," came that cold, smooth baritone.  "This is the part where you stop fighting, or this thing goes real bad for you, and in the end I'll still get what I want out of you."

He liked that phrase, 'what I want.'  Freud would say that he didn't get his way as a child.  Or that he wanted to have sex with his sister.  Or something.  I was never very good with Freudian logic.

"Just ask yourself," he continued smugly, "how easy do you want this to go?"

I didn't care how much he beat on me – I couldn't just lie there and take it again.  I would never forgive myself, and I had to live with myself for a lot longer than I'd have to live with a wound.  Assuming I lived through this, of course.

"Fuck you," I growled defiantly between coughs.

He made a tutting sound, then pulled back his boot and aimed a kick at my body.  I heard a disturbing _crack_ , felt a blossoming pain in my ribcage, and suddenly every movement of my chest triggered bouts of agony.  The wind was knocked out of me, to put it mildly, and I was starting to worry that it was never coming back when my lungs filled with a rush of air and an intense spike of pain.

"I still don't get why you're fighting this," he told me conversationally, like he wasn't in the middle of violently assaulting me.  "You're a queer and a slut.  You don't care who you fuck.  This kind of thing is right down your alley."

I closed my eyes and forced myself to ignore his taunt.  He was either trying to provoke me or attempting to vindicate his actions to himself.  It didn't merit a reply, even if I'd been able to deliver one.

After a couple of excruciating breaths – a respite of sorts, I guess, in which I presumably was meant to consider how being a sexual deviant caused me to deserve this – Donner leaned down, flipped me fully (and forcefully) onto my back, and took my upper arms in his hands with bruising strength.  With a quiet grunt of exertion he dragged me entirely out of the stall.  Through the haze of pain from my screaming ribs I took a second to curse the floor for being wood.  The rough surface skinned what felt like a large section of my back and left at least one splinter behind.  Later I was going to have to ask BJ to remove it for me.  And wouldn't it be fun to explain that one?

Donner straightened and looked down on me, in both senses of the phrase.  "Now.  Are you going to cooperate or do I break a few more ribs while you're down there?" he asked me acerbically.

I tried to push aside the pain and think that one through.  Would I feel any more accomplished in terms of being able to tell myself that I put up a fight several more broken bones from now?  Or was my pride satisfied at one nonfunctioning eye, one bruised trachea, one skinned back, one bloody mouth from causes as yet unidentified, and an unknown number of fractured ribs?  I mean, really, there was something to be said for not letting him beat me to death, right?

At that last thought I jerked my head in a nod.  Yes.  I wanted to live.

"Oh _good_ ," he said condescendingly.  "I had faith in you, I did.  You're smart; I like that."

I wished that I was in any sort of condition to wipe that smug smile off his face.  And then something did it for me:  desire.  That look of predatory lust took over his features again.  He crouched by me and then – as if strangely unsure of himself – tentatively stretched himself out on top of me, the way you might during foreplay when desiring full-body contact.  Only he didn't bother to support himself enough to keep from crushing me.  I gasped as his bulk put pressure on my damaged ribs.

Donner took advantage of my opened mouth and, after an split-second's indecision, slammed his lips against mine, sliding his tongue in between my teeth before I could think to close them.  Amidst my utter disgust I wondered briefly at his hesitancy before deciding that I really didn't give a damn whether this was his first kiss or not.  I tasted my own blood and a sharp pain told me that it was my upper lip that was split.  I broke the kiss quickly by turning my face away and received a swift open-palmed slap in response that would have sent me reeling had I been standing.  My head jerked to the right from the force – stinging, again, on the left side of my face – then lolled back and forth from the rebound in a way that made me think of the fate of Henry's little Japanese doll at Trapper's hands.  The teenager grabbed my jaw, his fingers pressing hard into my skin, and pulled my face back up to meet his, yanking my chin down to open my mouth.  As much as I wanted to, I didn't turn away again.  That lesson was learned.  As his tongue caressed mine I thought with a sinking feeling, _I'm never going to be able to kiss anyone ever again_.

After the one-sided make-out session had gone on for far too long (in my humble opinion) I felt his growing erection poking into my groin.  I closed my eyes with dread – well, I closed my right eye; I wasn't entirely sure what my left eye was doing at that moment.  But instead of turning me over and taking me as he had before, he grabbed my penis.  My eyes flew open wide – both of them, because suddenly I could see blurred colors out of my left eye – and I let out a low, pathetic whimper in protest.  He grinned and started stroking me as he resumed the kissing.  After a long moment of fondling, my body responded to his touch.  To my shame, I started to get hard.  Apparently my libido didn't get the message that this was _un_ welcome attention.  I hated myself for it.  I mean, sure, medically I knew that the physiological response was independent of my desires, but it was different when it was my own body that was responding to the bastard's touch.

"Look at that," Donner gloated, sitting back on his knees while holding my erection as if it was on display.  "I knew you liked it."

I averted my gaze.  If my eyes resumed watering even more furiously it was because of the soap.  Humiliated, I tried to think of anything that could make me flaccid.  Old ladies, dead puppies, blood pouring out of the boys who came in barely clinging to life.  The O.R.

Were they needing me yet?  Were they looking for me at that very minute?  I willed Radar to come open the door, to end the nightmare right then, then rethought that wish.  Did I really want anyone finding me like this?  No, no I didn't.  That would be a disaster.  They would find out.  I'd get a dishonorable discharge.  It would all be for nothing.

Between my effort of will and the lack of further stimulation I began to go soft.  Donner, having completely degraded me, seemed to decide to get on with it.  He grabbed me by the hips and flipped me roughly onto my stomach.  My ribs protested the treatment vigorously.  My face flopped on the shower floor, prompting my lip to bleed with renewed vigor.  I brought my arms up to pillow my head, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath as the motion pulled on my ribs.

One good thing about being on my stomach, I reflected, was that at least I didn't have to look at Donner's face while he fucked me.

I heard him removing his boots, then pulling down his pants and boxers.  I thought of trying to run while he disrobed but then remembered my wish to live through this.  I stayed put and hated myself all the more for it.  No, I probably wouldn't have even made it to my feet before he stopped me in some violent fashion or other, but that didn't stop me from being disgusted with myself.

When he forced himself on me that time I was unable to escape into my memories of home.  I was just in too much pain to focus on anything else.  After an eon of quiet grunts, pants, and dripping sweat he finally stiffened and collapsed on top of me with a moan.  My ribs creaked and I couldn't hold back a cry of pain.  After a long, panicked moment of being unable to expand my lungs, he sat up.  I sucked in a painful breath, then rolled agonizingly over onto my back when he stood.  I saw the blood from my skinned back smeared on his bare lower abdomen and the bottom of his shirt.  I'm not entirely sure why I lay there and watched him getting dressed.  Maybe it was the intense feeling of vulnerability when my back was to him.  Regardless, the moment seemed sickly intimate.

Once he was fully clothed he grinned down at me.  "See you around, fairy," he taunted, making his leisurely escape.

I couldn't find it in myself to make a snide comment before the door slammed shut behind him.  My prevailing thought was, _At least he didn't choke me unconscious again._

I lay there for a few minutes, stunned, exhausted, defeated, and in pain.  A lot of pain.  Finally my stinging eyes and back goaded me into action.  My attempts to sit up left me gasping in agony.  I eventually managed to flip back over onto my stomach and push myself up on all fours.  I carefully rose, holding my torso as if it were fragile and favoring my left side, and staggered into the wooden stall.  Turning on the water, I stood under the faucet and rinsed the soap from my irritated eyes.  The hot spray stung my abused face and I winced.  After remaining there for a moment, breathing shallowly and watching my blood swirl down the drain, I decided to get clean.  Assuming I could ever get clean again.  I was already in the shower; it was as good a time as any to try to remove his taint.  I just had to be careful not to aggravate my ribs if at all possible.

I picked up a bar of soap and meticulously scrubbed my entire body, rinsing the drying suds from my hair and rewashing it to get the rest of the maybe-gravy out, and paying special attention to my dick and buttocks in attempt to scrub away the sensation of his touch.  It turned out that it wasn't possible to do much of that at all without pain ranging from small twinges to excruciating stabs that left me gasping shallowly for breath.  I couldn't stand to lean to my right or rotate my torso, so I had to do some creative bending with my arms and legs.  It was agonizing to lift my arms high so I wound up bowing my head to reach my hair slightly more comfortably.  That said, when I was done I _did_ feel much better.  Yes, my ribs hurt like hell, I couldn't take deep breaths, my lip and back were still oozing blood, my throat and rectum were once again raw and sore, and my left eye wasn't giving me much more than blurry colors, but I was cleaner.  And I no longer smelled like bacon.  There was just one more thing I needed to do.

I dried myself off, carefully pulled on my boxers and (after some torturous twisting and reaching) my bathrobe, and stepped into my boots without lacing them.  Walking around the patches of blood on the wooden floor, I gingerly made my way to the latrine.  I refused to carry around that bastard's seed.  Just the knowledge that a part of him was still inside of me gave me the creeps.  On the toilet I expelled his ejaculate and breathed a shallow sigh of relief.  Finally I made my way carefully back to the Swamp.

After some cautious probing I decided that I probably had two fractured ribs on my left side but (thankfully) no complications.  I headed to the exam room to grab tape and bandages, managing to avoid seeing anyone who took note of my presence.  The hospital, inundated with casualties, was like a beehive, and every busy bee in it seemed to be focused on their own task.

Once there I applied a dressing to my sluggishly bleeding back as best I could and bandaged it in place with motions made jerky and clumsy by pain.  Twisting my torso and lifting my arms was pure torture.

For the taping I weighed my options:  tape my ribs and have my back screaming at me constantly but my ribs become slightly more comfortable, or skip the tape and experience sharp, shooting pains every time I breathed or moved my upper body, but less pain from my skinned back?  After some deliberation I chose the taping.  I wrapped my chest as tightly as I could manage.  I grabbed several APC capsules for the pain before I left and popped two into my mouth on the way back to the Swamp, swallowing them dry.

I knew that it would be a bad idea to be lounging around in my bathrobe in case anyone came in, as it showcased the tape on my ribs if I wasn't pulling it tight near the neck.  Still, I was really not looking forward to pulling a shirt over my head.  After another few minutes of stalling I bit the bullet (figuratively) and grabbed some clothes.  Pulling the pants on was the easier part.  The socks were less fun, since I had to bend over further to reach my feet.  But the real bear was the shirt.  When I lifted my arms high a bolt of pain shot through my body.  The first time I dropped my arms and the shirt, clutching my left side.  I took a moment's reprieve to curse loudly and inventively before trying again, this time soldiering through the pain and working the shirt down over my taped chest.

That done, the only obvious sign of the attack was my face and throat.  And I really didn't know what I could do to hide that.

It was probably after three o'clock – excuse me, 1500 – but I wasn't feeling all that up to barging into the O.R. to fight with Potter and/or operate.  I gingerly (excruciatingly) lay down on my cot in hopes of taking a nap.  What I _really_ wanted to do was get drunk – just completely and utterly wasted – but with the wounded pouring in I couldn't allow myself that luxury.

_At least I didn't need the Phenobarbital_ _this time_ , I thought in attempt to console myself.  It seemed that the tasks of showering and doctoring myself had given me goals that I could actually achieve and kept me calm.  Or maybe it was that my body was so busy dealing with the physical pain that it couldn't spare any energy toward anxiety and panic.  Either way, I was grateful.

 

* * *

 

I was still miserably lying on my stomach, wide awake, when my tent door opened a few hours later.  I pushed myself up carefully, grimacing at the pain in my ...everywhere.

"Hawk, Colonel Potter says..." Radar trailed off in shock when I looked up at him.  "Gee whillikers!" he exclaimed.  "Hawkeye!  Are you okay?!  Oh _boy_ , do you look bad!"  He sounded quite alarmed.

_This may not bode well in terms of my appearance_.  "Calm down Radar," I said soothingly.  "I'm fine."  I didn't feel soothing and I didn't feel fine, but I was afraid the kid was going to have a myocardial infarction at any second.

"Excuse me for saying, sir, but you don't look very fine!"  Well, at least I knew that my appearance corresponded with my state of mind.

"Just a little beat up," I assured him hollowly.  "No big deal."  I noted with bittersweet relief that at least I didn't _sound_ as bad this time around.  I'd interrupted the choking in favor of receiving the worst beating of my life.

"It sure looks like a big deal!"

" _Relax_ , kid.  I'm okay.  Now," I prompted before he could formulate another rebuttal, "what did Colonel Potter say?"

"Well, uh, Colonel Potter wanted you to come scrub up," he told me reluctantly.  "They're kinda feeling a little swamped.  Do you want me to tell him that you're not okay to operate?"

"No, no, I'll come."  I struggled to my feet while Radar watched with wide eyes.  "You can tell Colonel Potter that I'm on the way."

With an anxious nod he turned to leave.

"Oh, Radar," I added as an afterthought, "just tell him I'm coming.  Don't say anything else, please."  I counted on our friendship being strong enough for that favor.

"Oh!  Uh.  Okay, Hawk.  I won't tell him anything else!"

"Attaboy.  Thanks."

He exited and I bent down to put on my boots, realizing belatedly that perhaps it would have been a good idea to have Radar tie them on my feet for me.  I wound up having to step into them and lift my feet up onto my cot to fumble at the laces.  Once I finished _that_ adventure I went to check the mirror hanging on the tent's center pole.

_Holy fuck!_   I looked as bad as Radar said.  My entire eye area on the left side of my face was bright red and swollen hideously.  My neck looked like it was going to have another hand-shaped bruise tomorrow on top of the greenish handprint already present.  There was an oddly shaped red mark around my chin on both sides and wrapping around the bottom.  Maybe from when he grabbed my chin to kiss me?  Not to mention that the other bruises from the first attack on both sides of my jaw were sickly yellow.  There was absolutely no mistaking that I had been someone's punching bag more than once.

My mind raced and I returned to the same question I'd been agonizing over for hours:  how could I persuade Colonel Potter not to transfer me?  I'd have to convince him that I had a plan to keep this from happening again.  What I really needed was that plan.  My wheels kept spinning as I trudged over to the hospital.  I was still coming up blank.  I grabbed a mask in the scrub room and began washing up, electing to stay in my green fatigues instead of having to go through the excruciating process of changing clothes.

_Maybe I should talk to someone_ , I thought desperately as I scrubbed.  I was too close to this.  Maybe someone else could see something I didn't.  Someone who wouldn't repeat anything I said.  Who _couldn't_ repeat anything.  Even if they thought it was for my own good.  _Father Mulcahy_.  Did the rules of confessional apply to agnostics?  I had no idea.  But what I did know was that I really could use some help right then, and I was getting less and less concerned with where that help might come from.

I finished scrubbing and dried my hands.  With butterflies in my stomach and a shallow sigh of resignation, I backed through the O.R. doors – making sure my sore butt swung open the door, as opposed to my painful chest – with my sterile hands held up.

"Gloves please," I said quietly to the first nurse I saw nearby.  The last thing I wanted was to announce my presence and have everybody get a good look at my face.  I knew there was no way anyone could miss it if they so much as glanced at me, but I was mainly hoping that it wouldn't be everyone at the same _time_ this go round.  At least the mask hid the split lip and bruises on my jaw and chin, so the entire effect wasn't quite as disturbing.  I hoped.

I heard a gasp and something metal hitting the floor.  Possibly a basin.  It made a racket.  And there we went again with everyone staring in stunned silence at my face.  I rolled my right eye.  The fuzzy colors that my left eye was showing me changed too, so maybe it rolled as well.  Who knows.

" _Gloves_ ," I repeated, less politely.  Nothing happened.  "Gloves, already!  Good grief, woman.  If you would stop staring I could be operating by now," I snapped.

"S-sorry, doctor," Kellye said contritely, finally pulling gloves onto my hands.

I held my arms out for the gown and grunted in pain as she wrestled it onto me.  "A bit more gently next time, please," I griped irritably.

Kellye looked at me with wide eyes.  "Yes, doctor."

I looked up to meet BJ's gaze.  His blue eyes looked furious.  I was glad that his rage wasn't aimed at me.

I looked, next, to Colonel Potter.  His brown eyes looked incensed, and I was afraid that some of that _was_ directed at me.  I gave him a desperate and very fake smile which I made sure reached at least one eye and was rewarded with a glare.  So, he was not ready to laugh about any of this just yet.  Good to know.

"Pierce, see me after this," he said ominously.

"Whatever your heart so desires," I said in my sweetest voice, standing in front of an empty table.

"That'd better mean 'yes sir,'" he told me in an intimidating tone.

"Absolutely.  Indubitably.  Most assuredly," I declared impertinently.

Two corpsmen – thankfully neither of them Donner – plopped a wounded soldier down in front of me.  My eyes flickered over the man's face and a wave of relief washed over me when I saw that it wasn't Reynolds.

_You can't do this to yourself,_ I thought sternly.  I was already dealing with a bit of a crisis; I didn't have the resources necessary to handle that too.  I needed some distance from my feelings for the man or I was going to be shipped off to the funny farm in short order.  Shaking my head at myself I tightened my grip on reality (no matter how hellish it was at the moment) and got to work.

My left eye was useless to me and operating with only one eye took a little adjustment.  My depth perception was skewed and more than once I had to feel around for whatever I was trying to clamp at the time.  I knew that Kellye was monitoring me with concern.  Eventually, by some signal that I missed – or perhaps telepathy – Margaret came to replace her.  Apparently I needed a supervisor.  Hell, I knew I did.

I kept my conversation to a minimum, as chatting wasn't fun with a split lip, not to mention that my spirit really wasn't in it.  I only hit on two nurses the entire eight hours I spent in the O.R.  My ribs were aching and my face and back were throbbing.  I'd never noticed until then how often in surgery it was necessary to reach and bend and twist.  I was at least glad that we didn't have to _sit_ to operate.

At one point, with my strength flagging and the pain building to unmanageable levels, I remembered the APC capsules in my pants pocket.

"Oh nuuurse," I called.

"Yes, doctor?" Margaret said.

"I need a nurse who's a little more available, but thanks for the offer."

Margaret rolled her eyes.  "Bigelow!" she bellowed.

"Yes, doctor!"  The pretty lieutenant came running.

"Be a good lass and get me an APC capsule."

She looked back and forth between me and the patient for a moment.  "I'm sorry?" she finally asked, apparently thinking I was going to wake the unconscious man up to give him a pain pill.

"For me!" I barked, exasperated.  "For me!"

Realization dawned on her face.  "Oh!  Oh, yes doctor."

I intercepted a concerned glance from Potter to someone behind me whom I presumed to be BJ and knew that they were worried about my condition if I was resorting to pain medication.

I didn't think we stocked APC capsules in the O.R. – generally people who needed to be stitched back together were beyond the point of an oral medication – so I directed her to my pants pocket.  "Left side, honey."  She self-consciously groped around in my pocket.  "That – that's not it!" I told her, squirming with a snicker.  I would have thought she'd have remembered what _that_ felt like.  Granted, it was usually a bit... harder.  My slight humor dissipated when I felt another remembered hand on my dick.  I went completely rigid and silent until she finally fished a capsule out.  When she pulled down my mask she gasped at my split lip and the angry red marks where bruises would form.  "Don't make a scene, please," I hurriedly requested in an undertone.  Nodding silently with pursed lips, she obediently dropped the pill onto my tongue and stuck a straw in my mouth so I could chase it with cold coffee.  "Good girl," I said gratefully.

A short time after taking the APC capsule I felt the caffeine (the C in APC) kick in.  That, coupled with the slight decrease in my overall pain level, helped me hang on until the end.

About midnight, two hours before we finished for the night, Donner once again became a litter bearer.  I did all I could to ignore his presence but couldn't control the tremors, which only intensified the first time he delivered a patient to my table.  Margaret watched me like a hawk and I began to worry that she'd swoop in at my next mistake and peck my remaining eye out.

Eventually things started winding down and our last few patients looked like the casualties of a barroom brawl.  Mine actually smelled like cheap beer.  This, of course, got Frank started, lecturing us mere mortals from his sanctimonious pedestal.

"Soldiers of the United States Army should be expected to behave in a civilized manner!" he informed the patients, who were only given locals and (unluckily for them) were all conscious.  "We're here to bring culture to these heathens, and here you are setting a bad example.  They're an impressionable people, you know!  I should report each and every one of you, you naughty ninnies!"

"Yes," I said, unable to stop myself.  "The drunken fistfight hadn't been invented in this nation until this very night.  It will be a night that goes down in the history books – Father, make a note of this, please, and send it to God so He doesn't forget this momentous occasion.  You know Frank, if we're not careful the Koreans will figure out how to use weapons, too, and" – I gasped loudly – "wage war!"

"I should report you too, Pierce!" he cried.  "You'd think an officer and _doctor_ would know better –"

"Shut up, Frank," BJ snarled.

"– Yet you keep brawling – and obviously _losing_!"

"Can it, Burns!" Potter growled.

Frank was on a roll and probably couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to.  "Maybe if you'd _win_ once in a while I could better understand this base compulsion you seem to have –"

" _Burns!_   Clam up!" our C.O. bellowed.

Donner had come in at some point during Frank's speech and he was wearing _that_ smirk – I could tell it just from his eyes – the one he'd used earlier that day.  For a split second I was back on that shower floor.  He was touching me, holding my dick in his hands, stroking me and molding me to his will....

The clatter of an instrument hitting the floor brought me back to the O.R.  The instrument must have been mine because my hands were empty and shaking like I was seizing.

" _Captain Pierce!_   Are you okay?!" Margaret asked, alarmed.

I couldn't breathe.  I couldn't inhale, couldn't get oxygen, needed to breathe!  The room was closing in around me and I had to **_go_**.  _Run run run run run_.  I bolted from my patient, gasping for breath.  I was pulling my mask off before I hit the O.R. doors.  Despite the pain shooting through my ribcage and rectum with each heavy footfall I loped out of the hospital building into the night in bloody white gown, fatigues, and gloves, breathing heavily.

I needed my Phenobarbital.  That's all there was to it.  I had to have that relief.  _Now_.  I ran to my footlocker and had the presence of mind to snap off the bloody gloves, letting them fall to the floor without a second thought.  I quickly measured out 5mL and injected it into my thigh through my pants.  Not only was I in too big of a hurry to pull them down, but it also just wasn't worth the pain of wrestling with a piece of clothing that I'd just have to pull right back up again.  I cleaned up the evidence with shaking hands and hid the bottle back in my trunk.  I tried to remove the bloody gown but it hurt too much to reach the tie at the back of my neck.  Instead I paced around the tent, waiting for the drug to take effect and dreading the moment when BJ or Radar or Colonel Potter himself would come to fetch me.  I couldn't stand another chat.  I needed a break.  No uncomfortable questions, no demands, no humiliating exams.  Just as close as I could get to peace at that point in time.

I decided to see if the father was in.  And I kind of hoped he wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess to being very nervous about posting certain content in this chapter. The rape scene was difficult to write, but I wanted to bring to light the disturbing atrocities that can be committed in situations such as this – primarily the degradation and humiliation of male rape victims, especially non-heterosexual men. I hope my readers will understand that I'm not including these details to be perverted and sadistic (at least, I'd like to think that I'm not; I suppose I could be in denial) but in attempt to garner understanding and compassion for those not deemed to be "the perfect victim."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed posting. In addition to Real Life intervening, the first part of this chapter was tricky. I'm still not completely satisfied with it, but I'm pretty sure I never will be and I'm not about to abandon this fic now, so… here it is.

 

I skulked, apparently unseen, to Father Mulcahy's tent, jerking the door open without thinking to knock.  Though the light was on, it was blessedly (so to speak) empty.  I'd seen the priest coming in and out of the O.R. as he performed his duties and had hoped he was still there.  It seemed that I was in luck.  Granted, in the category of luck I'd probably chalk this up as too little, too late, but it was nice all the same.

I took a cautious seat in his desk chair but instantly jumped up again with a pained grunt.  The hard wood was not very gentle on my derrière or my skinned back.  I paced for a moment, feeling my heart rate slow, and breathed a touch more deeply despite the shooting pain in my ribs.  Eventually my pacing subsided of its own accord.  I slowly and agonizingly lowered myself onto the father's cot, hugging my aching torso, wishing for escape, numbness, or oblivion.

That's how he found me, some unknown amount of time later.  I was feeling a bit more composed by that time, thanks to the Phenobarbital.

"Hawkeye!" the priest exclaimed with a start upon entering his own tent.  "Are you alright?!  Don't you know that everyone's looking for you?  Colonel Potter and BJ are worried sick!"

"Father," I asked, ignoring every word he'd just uttered, "can I talk to you?"

He seemed taken aback.  "Why, yes, of course.  What is it, son?"

"This confessional thing.  Basically, anyone can tell you anything and you can't repeat it, right?"

"Well, under some conditions."  He pulled his desk chair over near the cot and had a seat.

"What if they're not Catholic?  What if they're not _Christian_?"  My hands waved expressively until a sharp pain in my chest stilled them.

He leaned forward in his seat.  "For it to be a proper confession they must have been baptized, and they must believe that a priest is able to absolve them of their sins."

"Oh."  _Well shit._

"My son, you don't have to _confess_ to me to _talk_ to me," he said ardently.

"I would have to have your promise that you wouldn't repeat what I say – no matter what – or act on anything I tell you."

The priest wasn't exactly my first choice in confidantes, but I just couldn't let myself take that chance with anyone else – namely BJ.  Even if he took the news well – even if it didn't change our relationship one iota – I couldn't be sure that my friend wouldn't do something that would ultimately destroy my life in some noble attempt to protect me, regardless of my wishes.  And at least with Father Mulcahy, as opposed to Sidney Freedman, I didn't have to worry about my confession going into a file somewhere if the conversation went south.  Sure, I liked to think that the psychiatrist wouldn't have reacted badly had I told him, but if there was one thing I'd learned in life it was that admitting to taking part in any sort of not-strictly-heterosexual romance in a manner that couldn't be construed as a joke could cause normally completely rational people to get jumpy and respond in unexpected and often unpleasant ways.  It was a lesson I'd had impressed upon me an unfortunate number of times over, and by that point I'd gotten pretty skilled at not getting burned, even if it did result in occasionally raging paranoia.

That said, _joking_ about it (and often ruffling some feathers in the process) was an excellent source of entertainment and a great camouflage.  I'd inadvertently discovered long ago that the genius behind flirting nonstop with anything on two legs was that everyone assumed I was kidding around when I did make a pass at a man in earnest.  In general the only people to see through my playful façade were those who already knew what to look for, and the primary concern I'd have about them would be their possible (however unlikely) disinterest.

But this conversation would be no joke, and there would be no pretense, no safety net.  Which was why Plan A involved attempting to gloss over the details as I had with BJ and Sidney in hopes that the father could help me reach a solution without the need for full disclosure.  After all, Catholics, like the Army, weren't exactly known for their tolerance toward homosexual acts, and as benign and cuddly as Father Mulcahy could be, he was still a priest.  I just had to hope not to have to resort to Plan B.

"You have my word," the father replied solemnly.  "I promise."

I decided to throw in a slightly off-the-wall litmus test. "What if I told you I was planning to kill someone tomorrow?  You still wouldn't tell anyone?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you're plotting a murder?" he asked in disbelief.

I allayed his fears with an indelicate snort and stifled a potentially ill-timed joke involving Frank Burns.  "Of course not.  This is hypothetical."

"Well, that's good."

"But would you tell anyone?"  I had to know for sure.

"I'll treat this like a confession, if that will help.  Anything you say will be kept absolutely confidential."

"Oh good.  Thank you."  I took a deep(ish) breath, gathering my courage.  "Okay," I said, mostly as an encouragement to myself.  My short pep talk fell flat; I didn't know where to start.

"Is this about your injuries?" he asked me after a moment of awkward silence.

"Uh, yeah," I replied dumbly.  "The – this private, this _kid_ , he...."  _Wow, this is going well_.  "He's been... hurting me."  There was no way I could voice what Donner had done to me.  I couldn't even think the words, much less say them out loud.  I omitted the details and moved on, hoping that the father wouldn't ask.  "And last time they said – Colonel Potter and Sidney Freedman – that if it happens again I'm going to be transferred to another unit, and I can't handle that.  I can't."

"Why don't you turn him in?"  The priest sounded completely mystified.

"Yeah… about that."  I pursed my lips, then made myself continue before I lost my nerve.  "He's blackmailing me," I told him matter-of-factly.  "He caught me, ah, doing something that the Army disapproves of – strongly disapproves of – and if I turn him in he'll ruin my life."

The chaplain raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "Ruin your life?" he scoffed, albeit politely.  I hadn't until that moment realized that it was possible to be polite and belittle someone's judgement at the same time, but he pulled it off masterfully.  Perhaps I was taking his reaction too personally, but the conversation already had me on edge.  "My son, has it occurred to you that you could be blowing this out of proportion?" he asked mildly.  "Making a mountain out of a mole hill, as it were?"

I closed my eyes and let my head droop.  Of all the things I'd been worried about with this meeting, not being taken seriously hadn't even occurred to me.  Why was it so hard for people to believe that I could have a secret?  I mean, I knew I occasionally tended to come across as somewhat loquacious, but did everyone truly believe that there was nothing I might choose to keep private?  Nothing I might possibly want to hide from mainstream society?

"Is this your sermon on the mount?" I asked wryly, feebly attempting to veil my frustration with wit.

The father ignored my jibe.  "What exactly is it that you're afraid will ruin your life?" he asked with gentle skepticism.

"Uh."  I eyed the empty space a couple of feet to the right of his face.  "Can we skip past that bit and on to the advice part of this conversation?" I hedged.  "I'd hate to bore you with the details."

"My son, I can't help you if you don't trust me," he countered.  When I continued to avoid eye contact he pressed the subject.  "If you won't tell me the problem how am I supposed to help you find a solution?"

Fine.  I guessed I could be a little more specific.  "I was, uh….  He…."  I stumbled gracelessly through potential replies, nixing each one before it made it to a complete sentence.  "I would get a dishonorable discharge for… for what he caught me doing."

"Oh dear."  The chaplain pursed his lips.  "You do have a penchant for getting into trouble, don't you, Hawkeye?"

I snorted with dark humor.  "Yeah, I suppose you could say that."  My lips twisted into a grim smirk.  "Though usually I'm pretty good at getting myself out of my own messes."

The priest slipped into the role of therapist without batting an eyelash.  "What makes this one different?"

My brow furrowed in thought.  "It's more serious.  More personal.  I can't get enough distance from it for an objective perspective."

"I see.  Well, I'd be happy to help you with it, but I need a little more to go on."  I worried at my lower lip and studied the floor in lieu of replying.  "How am I supposed to help you 'get out of' a problem if you won't tell me what it is?" he asked solemnly.

This really wasn't going as smoothly as I'd hoped.  "Isn't it enough to know that I'm being blackmailed over something that would have serious repercussions for me if it got out?"

He gazed at me, his expression a mix of earnestness and frustration.  "Well, no, actually, I'm sorry to say.  Even if you were simply seeking penance I would require more information than that to absolve you.  But you're asking for guidance, for advice – for advice on how to resolve a situation! – without telling me what the situation is!  And I don't see how I can help you without that knowledge."

I scowled.  All my hopes for Plan A were fast heading down the drain.  "I'd be happy to hear a generic solution.  It doesn't have to be tailor-made.  I'll take one off the rack.  Any advice is good advice, really.  It's 'ask and ye shall receive,' right?  I don't recall hearing anything about additional requirements."

Perhaps under my flippancy he saw that my resolve was caving, because he pressed on.  "My son, I _want_ to help you.  If you could only find it within yourself to trust me I'm sure we could work out a solution to your problem."

I hesitated for a few moments, torn between my overwhelming need for help and my desire to avoid what could be a messy, highly unpleasant conversation potentially culminating in the loss of a friend.  Did I really have to go into detail?  I pondered my options before deciding that perhaps it could be the key.  After all, BJ and Sidney had been unable to help me when I'd withheld that information.  And the father _was_ sworn to secrecy and inaction.  Not that I thought that BJ would out me, of course, but I just couldn't run the risk of damaging my relationship with my sole anchor to sanity in this hellhole – or take the chance that he'd try to intervene on my behalf and end up ruining everything for me.  Father Mulcahy was surprisingly tolerant and accepting for a man of God; I could only hope that my confession wouldn't have a disastrous effect on our friendship.  And if it did… well.  If it did, it did, I supposed.  I needed help, desperately, and the chaplain was the only person that I was 100% positive could be trusted to both keep my secret safe and not do something that would jeopardize my future.  It was, I decided, a gamble I had to take.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Father.  I'm actually here because I do trust you, to keep your word.  I just... I don't want you to think less of me.  To look at me any differently."  Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that I was, in my hopefulness, probably deluding myself on the latter, but desperation won out.  Surely it was better to risk losing one friend than my entire family here at the 4077 – especially BJ.  I just couldn't lose BJ.

He gave me an encouraging smile.  "Well, I'd like to think I'm nonjudgmental."

I opened my mouth to make a snide remark about Christians and judgments, then reminded myself that it would be bad form to insult a man that I was in the process of asking for help.  I nodded to him instead.  "Okay.  Um."  _Here goes nothing_.  "He walked in on me, uh, in flagrante delicto."

The priest looked uncomfortable but underwhelmed.  "Oh.  Oh dear.  Well, I had gathered that you were – how shall I put it? – a bit of, um, a Romeo of sorts.  And while I certainly can't condone, well, fornication, it was my impression that you, uh, being agnostic, were rather unconcerned by the – the sinful nature of – of those kinds of relations.  But I really don't see how that could result in a dishonorable discharge, both you and the nurses being officers.  So, ah, what I mean to say is that, while embarrassing, I daresay that's not a punishable offense under military law."

"I wasn't with a nurse."  I kept my voice impassive.  "I was with a sergeant."

His brow furrowed in confusion.  "Not a...?  A...?  I – I wasn't aware that there were any women… sergeants… around here…."  It sounded like his naive mind was fighting the logical implication with all of its might.

"I'm not aware of any either," I said in a pleasant tone, before adding flatly, "I was with a man."

"You were –  Oh!"  His eyebrows shot skyward and he sat back in his chair, tearing off his glasses like if he couldn't see me clearly he could once again be blind to the truth.  "Oh.  Oh my."  His mouth opened and closed in an admirably convincing goldfish impression until he visibly collected himself.  "Why, that's….  Well… that – that does seem like a rather compromising position," he finally forced out.

I elected to continue as if I hadn't noticed anything at all untoward in his reaction to my bombshell.  Now that the hardest part was past the words tumbled freely from my lips.  "Exactly.  So if I give him up, he'll land me a dishonorable discharge."  My hands seemed to forget my ribs and were again gesturing to highlight the important points.  "And then I can wave goodbye to my medical career.  And pretty much any semblance of any life that I've ever wanted to live."

"I see."  Though he'd schooled the shock from his face his expression was grave, and I hoped that I was imagining that hint of reproach he may or may not have been trying to hide.

Reproach or no, it was a little late to be stopping by that point.  I was in it up to my neck; I might as well swim.  "And I don't know what to do.  The first time I thought it was a one-time-only thing.  But now... this has turned into a nightmare.  I can't escape him, and it's getting worse each time."

"Yes, that… that would certainly be quite distressing."  That hint of reproach had been overtaken by a good helping of condemnation.

"And I – I just… don't know…."  At his tone I floundered for words and fought to keep my eyes from seeking the ground.  They settled around his knees instead.  "Can – can you tell me where to go from here, Father?"  I knew he could hear the vulnerability in my plea.

After a moment of silence I looked up to meet his gaze.  I could see the answer in his eyes:  go to Hell.  Straight to Hell.  Do not pass Purgatory, do not collect $200.

There was no anger in his expression – I wasn't getting any righteous-wrath-of-God–type impression – but I saw deep disappointment and some underlying disgust.  I wondered idly if he was going to burn the blanket I was reclining on and disinfect his tent upon my departure.

"Hawkeye," he finally began cautiously, "you're... aware that what you're doing is considered an unnatural carnal sin, aren't you?  An abomination before the Lord?"

I closed my eyes.  _Wonderful_.  In addition to skipping past the advice section of this exchange in favor of the moral lecture, my friend had just placed me in the same category as men who fucked donkeys and molested children.  "I think I've heard that somewhere before, yeah," I said with cautious sarcasm, wrestling a blank mask onto my face with some effort.

"I know that you probably don't want to hear this, but I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't encourage you to turn away from such acts and repent of your sins," he told me earnestly.  "I know that… that this confession, so to speak, must have been difficult for you," he continued haltingly, obviously struggling for what he felt were the right words, "and I'm thankful that you came to me for guidance, even if it wasn't exactly for the goal of penance."

I knew where he was going with this.  It was an opening for a long-winded lecture if I'd ever heard one.  I decided to head it off at the pass.  "Father, can we just get down to the guidance bit?"

He was concentrating so hard on his speech that I don't think my words even registered.  "Now, I know that you're agnostic, but I – I just… I want you to know that the Lord is merciful and forgiving, and that He can help you overcome this affliction if you would just surrender yourself to His grace."  He met my stony façade with a quiet passion.  "If you would only let yourself experience His love, you would have no need for such carnal relations.  His grace transcends –"

On top of everything that had happened, I didn't need a sermon on the wickedness of my ways, even if the priest _was_ taking a remarkably genial approach.  " _Father_.  The advice?"

He appeared jarred from his thoughts at my tone.  "Ah, I'm sorry?  What was that?"

"Can we skip ahead to the advice part?" I asked impatiently and, if I had to be honest with myself (and I might as well be; I was practically in confessional already), a bit irritably.  The view that bisexuality or homosexuality was an affliction and same-sex relations an abomination was nothing new to me, but it hurt to hear those words coming from someone I had such respect for, and I really didn't care to stick around for the entire sermon.  I noted bitterly that there was no more talk of me blowing my problem out of proportion.

"The…?"  His mind was obviously still not on the desired track.

"You know, the part where you tell me what I can do to stop getting, uh, beaten up and blackmailed?"

"Oh!  Oh, yes.  Very well."  He paused a few uncomfortable minutes in thought, brow furrowed, then finally looked at me squarely.  "Tell me, son:  does he have any proof that… ah…."  He became flustered and stumbled on ahead without finishing that thought.  "Other than his word against yours, I mean?  A private's word against a captain's?"

"Are you advising me to lie, Father?" I asked with slight amusement.

"No, no, I'm just trying to gather all of the facts," he said vaguely.

"He has an incriminating picture," I admitted.

"Well."  He went silent for a long time.  I saw the gears turning in his head.  "That is still of little consequence," he finally concluded.

My eyebrows climbed for my hairline.  "Uh.  How's that exactly?" I asked in disbelief.  There'd be a big consequence alright if he showed that picture to anyone.

"Think of it this way:  he knows that if he turns you in he'll be exposed for what he's done to you.  All he really has over you are threats and violence," the priest explained.

"And a picture that would destroy everything I've accomplished in my life," I reminded him stubbornly.

"But I highly doubt that he would be willing to spend years in prison for assaulting an officer just to watch you get a dishonorable discharge," he pointed out.

"Who's going to take the word of a _pervert_ , Father?" I asked bitterly.  It was as if who I was attracted to, who I decided to sleep with, made me something less than human.  My manner betrayed my resentment.

"Well."  He paused for the space of a breath in thought, failing to comment on my word choice or tone of voice.  "You have multiple officers – doctors, in fact – as witnesses who would testify as to your injuries, and circumstantial evidence would place him as the most likely guilty party.  You would have a strong case against him, your own… actions… non-withstanding."

I tilted my head back and forth to indicate partial concurrence with his point.  "Strong case or no, my life would still be fu– ah, wrecked."  Not to mention that there was a good chance that a judge might just be inclined to side with a violent predator over a sexual deviant if Donner succeeded in convincing them that no sexual assault had occurred on his end.  After all, he was the one with the picture, and it would be his word against that of an exposed moral degenerate.

"I think you'll find that if you stand up to him – if you point out his potential consequences in detail – he'll be the one to back down first.  Most people would find years of hard labor in Leavenworth to be quite intimidating."

Stand up to Donner.  That'd be a trick.  I couldn't even look at him without wanting to run screaming from the room like a little girl.  "So your recommendation is to go from defense to offense."  Spearchucker would have been proud of my analogy.

"Well, yes, essentially."

I nodded once.  "I guess it's worth a try," I said with a resigned frown.  "I'm not exactly swimming in options right now."

"It can't hurt."

I bobbed my eyebrows in silent dissent.  I'd have to be very careful in how I went about setting up that conversation or it could indeed be quite painful.  For me.  Physically.

"Well, thank you, Father.  You've been very helpful."  I honestly wasn't sure if that was sarcasm or not.  He certainly brought up a good point, but putting the thought into action could be problematic.  It would require a flawless follow-through, and that would be tough when tasked with facing my own khaki Beelzebub.  I think I'd felt calmer when operating on a patient with a live grenade inside of him than I was feeling at the idea of having a chat with Donner.  At least with the grenade I'd be out of my misery if I screwed up, not risking the terrifying possibility of being violated and defiled yet again.

Still, having some sort of semblance of a plan was a huge relief.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel – no matter how frightening that tunnel might be.  Getting an outsider's perspective had been crucial.  I'd been too close to see the big picture.  Once it was clear to me I felt rather foolish for not having come to that conclusion myself, much earlier.  I could have saved myself an untold amount of suffering and one endangered friendship if I'd had an ounce of common sense and a backbone to go with it.

Speaking of endangered friendship... I couldn't help but note that the father could have reached the same conclusion whether or not I'd told him my dirty little secret.  I honestly didn't think that he had intended to pry simply for curiosity's sake – he'd actually thought he'd needed more information at the time – but that didn't change the fact that if he'd expended a little more effort thinking and a little less effort prying I'd still have his respect.

The chaplain's expression was reserved.  "Glad I could be of service."  His eyes shifted around the tent once or twice before settling awkwardly back on me.  "Hawkeye, you should probably report to Colonel Potter before he has the MPs put out an all-points bulletin," he advised.  It was likely true, but it was also likely an excuse to get me out of his tent, since I didn't seem eager to renounce my affliction in favor of God's grace.

I struggled to get up from his cot, wincing both at his change in demeanor and at the pain from my protesting ribs as I got to my feet.  He observed my struggle for a moment, oddly enough not offering assistance.  I wasn't sure if it was because he thought I'd find it embarrassing to be treated like an invalid (I would have) or if he didn't want to touch the sexual equivalent of a leper (also a possibility).  Heaven forbid any homosexual tendencies rub off on him through physical contact with me.  That would probably make his vow of celibacy twice as difficult.  Or ten times as difficult, based on the ratio of men to women in camp.

Trying to convince myself that hindsight was 20/20, I fought to regain my earlier attitude of acceptance – that more peaceful 'que sera, sera' outlook – but couldn't shake the bitterness that had taken hold of me.  The theoretical damage to our friendship was easier to face than the reality of it, it seemed.

"Thanks, Father," I said stiffly, "for the advice."

"My door is open any time if you would like me to pray with you," he offered magnanimously.

"Maybe some other time."  I gave him a pained smile and drifted toward the exit.  "Goodnight," I said, a bit formally.

"Goodnight," he replied in kind.

 

* * *

 

Leaving the priest's tent, I crept towards Potter's office, apprehension building with each step.  I tried to focus on my impending meeting (or doom, as the case may be) with my C.O. instead of the one I'd just had with the chaplain.  I somehow had to convince the colonel that I had a plan that would work.  Even though I'd told him _last_ time that it wouldn't happen again.  _Oh yeah.  This is going to be great_.

When I walked into the outer office Radar lurched to his feet.  "Hawkeye!  We've been looking all _over_ for you!  Where've you been?!  Colonel Potter's gonna have _kittens_!"

"But kittens are so cute," I teased.  "Haven't you been needing more pets?"

He glared at me, then gestured toward the inner office.  "I'm not gonna announce you.  I want to be in another _country_ when he lays into you."

"Ah, my courageous sidekick rides in to save the day again.  Have no fear, Radar, the heroes will yet prevail."  _I hope_.

"Radar," called an irritated voice from the inner office, "is that Hawkeye I hear out there?"

"Uh, yessir," Radar replied nervously.  "He's on his way in right now."

"Good!" Potter barked.  "Go tell BJ he's here.  Poor boy is worried to death," he added for my benefit.  And I felt bad for my disappearing act, I really did.  But that talk I'd had with Father Mulcahy might just preclude another disaster like this one.  If only I could convince Potter that the problem was all but solved.

With considerable trepidation I made my way through the swinging doors to the inner office.  "You wanted to see me?" I asked innocently.

"Park it," he said firmly, jerking his head at the chairs in front of his desk.

I sat carefully under his watchful gaze, leaning forward in the chair for my back's sake while also trying to minimize the pain in my rectum.  In my medical opinion... I was a wreck.  I was grateful not to be on an operating table – or dead – to be sure, but I was in pretty bad shape if I did say so myself.  And I did.

"What were you _thinking_?!" the colonel demanded as soon as I stopped squirming.  "I don't know if I'm angrier at you for vanishing when I told you to meet me, for running out on a patient, for operating when you couldn't half see or – apparently – _think_ , or for putting yourself in a dangerous position while telling me and Sidney that _it wouldn't happen again!_ "  On the last part he jumped out of his chair to shout at me.  I'd venture a guess that he was angrier about the 'wouldn't happen again' bit.  Which was unfortunate, since that was what I was selling him this time too.  "Well?  What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry," I replied honestly.  "I made a mistake."  I wasn't exactly of the opinion that this was the ideal time for him to be yelling at me for these things, but I figured that mollifying my C.O. would be the quickest way out of this conversation.

"You made a whole _slew_ of them!" he corrected me emphatically.  It seemed that he was channeling his feelings of frustration and helplessness into anger, unluckily for me.  It was too bad I couldn't point a finger at the person he really wanted to vent his rage on.

Exhausted and just wishing for the chewing out to be over, I chose the path of least resistance.  "I did," I said solemnly.  "It won't happen again."

BJ burst through the doors at that point, looking frantic.  A surge of guilt washed over me.  "Hawk!  We looked _everywhere_ ," he informed me emphatically.  I made a mental note to hide in Father Mulcahy's tent for any future rounds of hide-and-seek.  "Are you alright?!"

"I have to say I've had better days.  There was this one time I got ran over by an ambulance..." I joked.  Mostly.  Mostly joked.

He had a seat in the chair beside mine and peered closely at my face.

"BJ, we were having a discussion here," Potter interjected sternly.

"Can you see out of that eye?" he asked me worriedly, clearly oblivious to the colonel.

"Define 'see.'"

"Pipe down, you two!" Potter yelled, getting our attention.  "Pierce and I weren't done with our chat," he said forebodingly.  "Hunnicutt, if you can't keep your mouth shut I'll have to ask you to remove yourself from this room."

"Mouth shutting now," BJ replied pithily.

"Good.  Now, Hawkeye, are you willing to give me the name of the man who's abusing you?" Potter asked bluntly.

I dropped my gaze to the floor.  "No," I practically whispered.

"Can you give me any reason that you shouldn't be transferred to another unit?"

"Yes!" I said forcefully.  "I can't... I can't handle this war without this unit.  Without you and BJ and my friends here.  Without my support system.  I'll lose it.  I really will."

"You won't let me keep you safe!" he nearly shouted.  I could hear the frustration in his voice.  "Am I supposed to just let this continue?"

"It won't happen again!" I promised him fervently.

"Let me remind you that you told Sidney that _last_ time."

_And therein lies the rub_.  "Well.  I may have promised a little more than I could deliver last time," I confessed guiltily.  "Uh, stretched the truth a bit, so to speak."

He gaped at me, momentarily at a loss for words.  But only for a moment.  " _And that's supposed to make me believe you **this** time?!_ "

"I have a plan this time!" I assured him.

"And just what does that plan entail?" he asked suspiciously.

All I really had at that point was an abstract idea, but I'd rather him not know that.  "Just... trust me.  It'll work."  I tried to imbue those words with every ounce of confidence I possessed, and then some.

"You expect me to trust you after you _just_ admitted to lying to me?" he demanded incredulously.

"Technically I lied to Sidney," I pointed out delicately.

" _Technically_ I could give you KP duty for the rest of your stay here!" he bellowed.

I winced.  "I promise you," I said, "I swear, this won't ever happen again."

He eyed me for an uncomfortably long time.  For a while I earnestly met his full gaze with my half of one – or heck, who knows, maybe my left eye was getting in on the action – but eventually I glanced over to BJ.

BJ and I had a silent discussion using only facial expressions that roughly amounted to:  "Well that was really stupid of you."  "I know, but what else could I have said?"  "Like you've ever needed help coming up with bullshit."  "Haven't you ever heard that honesty is the best policy?"  "Not when it gets your butt transferred out or put in a permanent sling!"  "Duly noted, I'll lie like a dog next time."  "There'd better not _be_ a next time!"  "You're right.  My mistake.  This was the last time, I promise."  "How am I supposed to accept your promise when you just agreed to lie?"  "Well make up your damn mind!"

Finally Potter stood, interrupting our 'conversation.'  "Alright, let me see you."

I stood carefully as he approached me from around the desk.  He reached up to my face and I tilted my head down to him.  With light touches he examined my eye, lip, chin, and throat, making small _hmmph_ ing noises occasionally.   I was unable to repress the tremors that seized my body at the contact.  When he pressed on the swollen skin around my eye, presumably to get a look at the eye itself, I hissed in pain and jerked my face away.

"Can you see out of that eye?" he asked me.

"Blurry colors."  Like my body, my voice wavered pathetically.

He stepped back.  "Anything else to report?"

I suspected that my honesty was being tested.  "Fractured ribs," I admitted, studying the floor.  I heard BJ's sharp intake of breath.  "Simple nondisplaced fractures, I think, in ribs eight and nine.  Left side."

Potter smoldered.  "Take off your clothes," he ordered crossly.

"Colonel!  I never foresaw _you_ of all people getting fresh with me."  The flirty tone I'd affected was ruined by the quavering of my voice and the hitch of my breath as I tried to disrobe.  "I'm flattered, I really am, but I'm afraid I'll have to respectfu–"  My words cut off with a gasp.  I had reached up and behind me before remembering why I was still wearing the bloody white gown in the first place.  The rest of my banter was cancelled as I fought to breathe through the pain.  BJ saw me struggling and took pity on me, removing the gown and helping me get the shirt off over my head.

"Pierce," Potter grouched meanwhile.  "Shut your mouth and drop your pants."

Leaning to the left in attempt to ease the pain in my chest, I paused a moment to catch my breath, nodding my thanks to BJ.  Once the sharp, shooting pains had slowed to correspond only with my inhales and exhales, I straightened and shakily let my pants fall down to my ankles as ordered.

Once I was standing in front of him clad in only my boxers the colonel unwrapped the sloppily applied tape from my ribs, then stopped.  "What's this here?" he asked forbiddingly as he removed the bandage from my back and peeled back the dressing.

"Oh yeah.  Uh, skinned back."

" _Skinned_ –" he cut himself off before he could make me feel any more self-conscious.

Shaking his head, he examined the large bruise where Donner had kicked me.  Pressing on my slightly swollen ribcage, he seemed to take note of the same places I had.  I flinched quite a few times as he palpated the injured area.  My shaking got more and more severe the longer he touched me.  He pulled out his stethoscope and listened to my breathing, watching the rise and fall of my chest.  The 'take a deep breath' part was especially fun.  Even worse was the trunk rotation and lateral flexion he had me do.  As I bent sideways at the waist to my right, away from the fractured side, stabbing pains shot through my chest.  I quickly leaned back to my left, favoring my injured side and panting.  Potter observed this with displeasure.  Finally he finished his evaluation of my ribs and nodded.

"Probably two," he acknowledged.  "Get some X-rays done when we're through here."

"Yep," I replied simply.  Probably a bit informally for the Army, but that was one of the reasons I was fighting to stay here:  the right to say 'yep' to my C.O.'s command.

He then circled to my back and _hmm_ ed a little back there.  "BJ, clean this up when we're done."

"Will do."

Potter taped the dressing back in place.  He took note of the fingerprint-sized marks on my upper arms.  On a hunch he pulled my boxers down a bit to see a scattered array of contusions dusting my hips.  I jerked violently at his light touch.

"You didn't mention the bruises."

"Honestly, sir," I told the ceiling, slightly exasperated, "I'm having trouble keeping track."

"Hmmph."  I think that was Potter's grumpy version of 'touché.'  After he'd examined me to his satisfaction – or dissatisfaction, as the case may be – he stepped back and looked up at me.  "There's nothing I can say to make you rethink telling me who this jackass is?"

"I have to handle this myself," I told him, painfully pulling the shirt and pants back on.  I balled up the bloody gown and held it.  "Let me stay here and I'll handle it."

"With your plan.  That you didn't have last time, but that you lied about having all the same."

"Actually, last time I just said that I'd figure something out," I objected.  I'd only really stretched the truth, as it were, about my ability to do that.  "And I have!" I added quickly at his glare.  "It just took me a little bit longer than I'd have liked."  Not to mention more help than I'd have liked.

"And this plan takes care of me having a predator running around my camp?" he asked doubtfully.

"It will, yes," I assured him.

"And this will never, ever happen again, so help you God?"

"Right."

"You do realize, with an escalation like this, that if there's a next time he could very easily kill you."

_Escalation._   Yes, that was a good word for it.  He was trying out new tricks each time.  Granted, I was more beat up this go round because I'd defied him, however ineffectively.  I still wasn't sure that that had been a mistake, though.  I didn't hate myself as much this time.  Well, not for that, at least.

"It won't happen again," I assured him.

"You're still not going on active duty until you can tell me – _honestly_ – that this threat has been dealt with.  Which had better be long before those ribs heal.  If we hadn't been overrun by casualties you wouldn't have been allowed to operate.  If I'd known you were...."  He trailed off with a pained expression.  "Anyways.  Report to me when you've handled this... this... pony puck.  And if you don't do it very soon, we're going to have to come back to this subject."

I nodded my understanding and gratitude, then stood to go.

"Ice those ribs and have BJ take a better look at that eye," Potter instructed as I turned for the door.

"Your word is my command, sir!" I declared cheekily as I left the office.  It would have been more convincing if my voice hadn't been shaking almost as hard as my body.

I spied Radar busying himself with some bullshit or other in the outer office, as if he hadn't just been hanging on our every word via stethoscope.  I flashed him a thumbs-up and winning smile that tweaked my lip.  His expression bordered more along the lines of 'afraid for his life' than 'reassured that everything was fine and dandy.'  I made a mental note not to smile at people for a little while.

BJ, unsurprisingly, had followed me out.  When I would have walked out into the inky darkness of the Korean night he took my elbow and steered me toward X-ray.  I only jerked a little when he touched me, and he tactfully ignored it.

"So where were you?" he asked mildly, as if he hadn't turned (nearly) the entire camp upside-down searching for me.

"I'm sorry for disappearing on you," I told him truthfully.  "I was... talking to someone who helped."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you finally let _someone_ help."  His tone suggested that, while he was glad, he was also insulted that it wasn't him.  I was relieved when he continued, because I couldn't come up with a nice reply to that one.  "But really, where _were_ you?  We looked _everywhere_."

"Um.  I was in Father Mulcahy's tent," I said sheepishly.

"Oh.  Huh.  We... we didn't think to look there.  We even checked the _nurses'_ tents.  But not the priest's."  I couldn't stop myself from grinning mischievously at his dumbfounded expression.  It wasn't often that I got to see that look.  When he caught me, though, he put on a pitiable hurt look that tugged at my heartstrings even though I knew it was mostly faked.

"Okay, cut it out already," I teased.  "I surrender."

An impish smile took over his face instantly and I had to smile back, feeling like a small amount of weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  God – should He exist (and not hate me) – bless BJ.


	10. Chapter 10

When we pulled into the X-ray room at a little past 2 a.m. I reflected that it was much easier this time.  BJ and I were already bantering back and forth.  There were no questions about that four-letter word that had been hounding me since the first incident.  No talks about VD.  No anxiety attacks.  Well, maybe a small one.  And a little shaking.  And some jumpiness.  You know what, just scrap that anxiety bit.  Otherwise though, just some contusions, abrasions, and fractured ribs.  Yeah, it was painful, but it wasn't so degrading.

As long as I didn't think about how Donner had kissed me.  How he'd touched me and gotten me hard.

_Does that make it consensual?_   I knew that I couldn't control that response, of course, but... I'd gotten an _erection_.  How could that not be –

A touch to my arm made me flinch violently.  "Gah!" I half-shouted, my heart pounding in my throat and ribs protesting strongly.  I realized that I had set sail for my own unpleasant little island and left BJ far behind.

"Hawk?" he asked worriedly.  "You okay?"

I tried to breathe deeply but the first inhale reminded me of why we were in X-ray to begin with.  "Fine," I reassured him shortly.  "Sorry Beej."  I wound up just spacing out my shallow breathing.  I knew that that may not work out well in the long run for a brain needing oxygen, but it was what I had to work with.  "Did you say something?"  Had he touched me to get my attention?  I must have missed something.

"Yeah, step over here," he instructed, waving me toward the X-ray machine.  "Let's get an upright AP."  I stood in approximately the right place and was then directed into position with verbal cues instead of the more usual physical nudges:  "Come an inch to the right.  No, sorry, my right, your left."

"You'd think after graduating medical school you'd be able to tell your right from your left."

BJ returned my lighthearted jibe as he continued his instructions.  "One more inch.  Are you sure you know what an inch is?  You'd think after graduating kindergarten you'd be able to tell an inch from a centimeter.  _There_ you go.  Good.  Shoulders back.  Thank you."  He retreated behind the lead partition and continued his directions.  "Take a deep breath.  Deeper.  Actually _in_ hale.  Yes, I know it hurts.  Okay, good, one more.  Hold it."  I heard the buzz of the machine.  "And, relax.  Good job.  Okay, let's get a lateral."  I painfully reached up, resting my forearms on the top of my head, and placed my left side against the machine.  "Perfect.  Chin up.  Breathe.  Again.  Hold it.  Good!  All done!"

"On behalf of your past, present, and future patients, I'm obliged to tell you that you sound like you're praising a dog."  I dropped my arms and hugged my pained torso.

"Who's a good boy?" he said in exaggerated baby talk – or puppy talk, I supposed, in this case.  "Who wants a treat?"

"What kind of treat?" I asked with feigned interest.  "If it didn't come from the mess tent, I'm in."

"Here's the treat," BJ cooed.  (I was going to have to do something about that very soon – I'd created a monster.)  "After we develop the X-rays we get to go look at your eye and clean up your back and wrap your ribs again!  And do a good job this time!"

"Hey, you try wrapping your own fractured ribs," I objected.  "I thought I did a good job, considering."

He (thankfully) lost the puppy talk.  "Hawk, you might as well have been wearing a tight shirt," he nitpicked.

"Let's develop the radiographs, then you can put your money where your mouth is," I challenged.

"You're on."  Challenge accepted.

He removed the film from the machine and stepped over to the processing station.  He dipped each radiograph in the developing solution and the stop bath, then washed it and held it up as it dripped dry.  In the meantime I dumped the white gown into the dirty clothes basket across the way in the scrub room.  I was back before the X-rays were done.

"They're a little blurry" – likely because I was still visibly shaking – "but yeah," he told me, "looks like probable nondisplaced fractures on your left 8th and 9th."

"Like I said," I pointed out smugly as he rolled the unwieldy machine back behind the curtain.

"Like you said," he acknowledged with good humor.  "I'm going to stick this on Colonel Potter's desk – I know he'll want to see it – and then we'll go take care of those ribs.  Oh, and your back.  Uh, and your eye."  I knew it was bad when my best friend / doctor began losing track of how many injuries I had.

I followed him quietly past Radar, who was stretched out in his bunk trying to fall asleep, to Potter's now-empty office, then back through to the exam room, feeling like a puppy shadowing his human.

"Alright, let's take a look at your shiner," BJ said, patting the exam table and snagging the ophthalmoscope.

I eyed the table dubiously while my rectum reminded me emphatically of how sitting felt.  "I'll stay standing if it's alright with you."  For that and probably almost any activity in the near future.

A grim look flashed across his face before he managed to school his expression.  "Of course," he said apologetically.  He came to stand very close to me and tilted my head up ever so slightly with his finger under my chin.  I looked up into his pretty blue eyes, trying to tamp down the sudden rush of anxiety caused by his proximity and his gentle touch.

He leaned in slightly and suddenly it was Donner who was bringing his face closer to violently slam his lips into mine.  To thrust his tongue down my throat.  I jerked my head back and shoved him away, backing up abruptly until I crashed into something with a wave of agony.

Just like that, the spell was broken.  It was BJ I'd pushed, and I was cringing against the exam table, painfully sliding down its side to sit equally as painfully curled up on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.  I breathed quickly and shallowly, head spinning.

"Hawk?" BJ asked, alarmed.  "You with me?"  He crouched a short distance from me but didn't reach out to touch me.  Smart man.

"Yeah yeah," I said, trying to reassure both of us.  "I'm fine.  It's just... I... sorry."

"Not a problem," he replied in a pacifying tone, as if soothing a spooked animal.  "Not your fault."

I heaved a painful sigh, then tried to straighten my legs to stand, electing, in deference to my ribs, not to reach back to push myself up using the exam table.  All I really managed to do was squirm and hurt my injured ribs, back, and butt.  BJ, divining my intention, stood and offered me his hands.  With an uneasy half-smile of gratitude I took them and let him pull me to my feet, grunting at the resulting pain in my chest.  He dropped my hands as soon as I was stable and stood there for a moment, observing me in case I had another meltdown, I presumed.

"I'm ready.  Sorry," I repeated.

"Okay," he said, approaching me cautiously.  Again he leaned in close, carefully raising my chin to tilt my head up minutely.  With light touches he examined my face.  I succeeded in keeping the shakiness to a minimum.  When he gently touched my swollen eye socket I almost jerked my head out of his grasp but managed to restrain myself to a strong twitch.

"Sorry," he apologized.  I knew he hated causing me pain.  It was one of the burdens of being a doctor – sometimes you had to hurt someone to help them.  And it was harder when the patient was someone you were close to.  There was an awful lot of 'sorry' going around that night.  "Alright, I need you to open your eye as wide as you can."  He grabbed the ophthalmoscope and flicked on the light.  I raised my eyebrows in attempt to lift some of the swollen tissue out of the way and widened my eyes following the resulting wince.  My face throbbed in time with my heartbeat.  "Look straight at me."  I aimed my right eye at his face and hoped my left eye was taking the hint.  "Good.  Now look at my right ear."

"You do realize that I can't _see_ your right ear with that light in my eyes, don't you?" I asked rhetorically, trying to soothe myself with sarcasm.

If BJ responded it must have been via facial expression, which I graciously chose not to point out that I was currently unable to observe thanks to the aforementioned light, at the risk of sounding redundant.  "Okay, now look at my left ear."

"Why do I get the impression that you're not listening to a word I say?" I asked with mock irritation, but gazed at where I estimated his left ear would be.

"I'm too busy trying to get a look at your shiner while your mouth won't stop moving.  You _do_ realize that your lips are indirectly connected to your eyes, right?"  I smirked but fell silent.  "Alright.  Look up."  I made a show of rolling my eyes, but didn't drop my gaze until so directed.  "And down.  Good."  He switched the light off and backed up a pace.  "Good news!  You have a periorbital hematoma, obviously" – I rolled my eye(s) for real that time; it didn't take a doctor to diagnose a black eye (I bet even Frank could have reached that conclusion) – "but there's no sign of ocular hypertension or hyphema.  Any double vision?"

I shook my head.  "You still look singular to me."

"Good.  But your vision's still blurry?"

"Either that or my right eye's seeing far too many sharp edges."

He tilted the corners of his mouth up in the tiniest of smiles to humor my weak jest.  "Your eye looked fine," he assured me, hanging up the ophthalmoscope.  "I can't say the same about your eye _socket_.  But if you're still having trouble with it in a couple of days we'll take another look."

Well, that was a relief.  "I was just getting the hang of being a one-eyed surgeon," I protested jokingly.

"If you ever try that again I think Margaret and Colonel Potter will have to duel to see who gets to skin you alive first," he said seriously.

"Don't give up surgery to become a motivational speaker."

"I just motivated you to never do that again, didn't I?" he pointed out.

"You're supposed to empower me to do whatever I want in life!" I objected.

"I draw the line at encouraging antemortem autopsies."

I stuck my tongue out at him in a moment of unrestrained maturity before painfully removing my shirt (and wondering what had possessed me to put it back on in Potter's office, anyway).  BJ broke out the gloves, antiseptic, gauze, bandages, and tape.

"Can you lay on your stomach up here?"  He patted the exam table.  As I struggled onto the table with a pained groan he asked, "Do you mind telling me how you're going to make sure this never happens again?"  I heard the familiar snap of plastic gloves being pulled on.  "I would really like to sleep tonight."  After I finished squirming into a more comfortable position he removed the bandage and dressing, clicking his tongue at the sight of my abrasions.

"Father Mulcahy pointed out that he can't turn me in without exposing himself and what he's done to me."

"But the picture..." BJ protested as he began cleaning my wound.

"If that picture got out I would have him locked up for many years.  I bet he'd agree to turn it over if I pointed that out to him.  In detail."  I put the entirety of my confidence into that statement, along with quite a bit of conviction that I didn't even know I'd possessed.

BJ paused for a moment in his ministrations.  "So you would be willing to let this mystery cat out of the bag in order to see this guy put away?"

"No," I said frankly.  "But he doesn't have to know that."

I could picture the assessing expression that I was sure crossed my friend's face as he evaluated my plan.  "It's risky, but it could work."

"I can pull it off," I said with somewhat bluffed assuredness.  I _had to_ pull it off.  Failure was not an option.

"Why didn't _I_ come up with that?" he asked in an undertone, as if to himself, while resuming his attentions on my back.  "I could have put a stop –"

"Beej, don't," I interrupted.  "We were too close to this.  I had to find someone with a different perspective.  You can't blame yourself."

"Watch me," he muttered.

"Really.  It's not your fault."  The last thing I wanted was my friend to feel guilty about this mess.  Well, one of the last things.  Actually, there were quite a few things that I would really prefer not happen that would probably top that list.  But BJ's guilt was on there somewhere.

"Alright, alright, fine."

I wasn't sure I believed him but let it go that time.  "Oh, can you make sure there are no splinters in there?"

" _Splinters_?"  He stopped his treatment again, presumably to look at me.  The only good thing I'd found about my busted eye was that right then I had an excuse for not meeting his gaze.  Only one side of my face could be up at a time while I was stomach down and I sure as hell wasn't putting my bruised and swollen eye down on anything.

"Yeah..." I said, humiliated.  "Wood splinters."

" _Wood_ –  Do you mind if I ask how _that_ happened?"  I felt his gentle touches resume.

"I don't think you really want to know," I told him cautiously.

"I'm a big boy.  I can take it."

I gave a mental shrug and braced myself for an influx of vivid and unpleasant memories that astonishingly didn't come.  "Well.  Uh.  He caught me in the shower."

BJ stopped again.  I heard him sit back on his stool.  "In – in _our_ shower.  The shower we use all the time."

"That's the one," I said apologetically.  "Sorry.  Tried to tell you."  It was probably different to know abstractly that something had happened than to know that that something had happened in the place you went to get clean.

"No, no, it's fine.  I asked."  He started touching my back once more.

"But now you're not going to be able to go in the shower without thinking about it."

"Yeah," he said, voice subdued.  "How are _you_ going to be able to take a shower?"

"Probably because you'll be there," I said, half-smiling.

"Good answer."  I could hear the answering smile in his reply.  A knot in my stomach that I hadn't even realized was there loosened slightly at hearing my friend's support.  Then I heard his smile fade.  "And you were right.  You have several splinters.  One of them is going to be a doozy."  The squeak of the stool told me that BJ had stood, and a few footsteps later a drawer slid open.

"What, will it require a local or something?" I asked, mostly joking.

"Near enough."  He sat back down, presumably with some forceps.

"Just one more thing I needed today," I sighed glumly.

BJ was silent for a moment and I felt the barest hint of cold steel on my back.  "So what are you going to do about him?"

"Huh?"  I felt a sharp tug and slight pain.  _Well that wasn't so bad_.

"Your plan."  A second quick pull with a bite.

"Oh.  I figure I can make him transfer out."  Another sudden tug and sting.

"So he can go do the same thing in some other camp?"  Yet another pull and a prick.

"That's the best solution I could come up with."  And then he stabbed me with something, _hard_.  " ** _Ow_** _!_ " I shouted, sitting up suddenly despite my ribs and nearly cracking BJ in the forehead.  "What the hell is wrong with you?!  You're supposed to be pulling things out not putting things in!"

He chuckled darkly and held up the forceps.  A relatively thick sliver of bloody wood fully two inches long was clasped there.

_Oh_.

"Now lay back down.  I'm sure it's bleeding and I'd rather not get it all over the place."

I complied, disturbingly reminded of the image of Donner with my blood smeared over his belly.

BJ picked up our conversation from where we'd left off.  "Why not press charges?"

I felt the sting of the antiseptic and jerked slightly.  "Did you forget that he's blackmailing me?"  That came out a little more sharply than I intended.  "You know.  The _picture_."

"What could be that bad, really?" he asked frankly, sponging the abrasion dry and smearing ointment on my back.

I wished I could tell him.  I really did.  But look at where it had gotten me with Father Mulcahy.  I couldn’t risk losing what I had with BJ.  Instead, I ignored the question.  "Also, there's the whole thing with telling a bunch of people what he did to me."

I felt him lower a fresh dressing in place.  "Hawk, it wasn't your fault!  There's nothing to be ashamed of."  He bandaged the cloth down and backed away to dispose of the trash. 

I eased down from the table.  "If I hadn't put myself in that position in the first place, none of this would have happened."

"But it was _him_ making the decision to hurt you.  _He's_ the one who raped you."  And there was that four letter word again.  "Lift your arms," he added, grabbing the tape.

"I wasn't raped," I snapped as I painfully complied.

"Are you telling me you _wanted_ to have sex with him?"  He began wrapping my ribs.

" ** _No!_** "  _Of course not!_

"Then you admit that it was nonconsensual?" he pressed.

I hesitated, debating the wisdom of denying that intercourse had occurred.  I ultimately decided that it would be about as effective as trying to crack a cinderblock in half with my forehead.  Both would give me a headache and still get me nowhere.  "I guess, yeah," I admitted.  _When you put it like that_.  I thought guiltily of my erection.

"So your real problem here is with the word 'rape,'" he concluded bluntly.

"I guess," I repeated noncommittally.  A familiar refrain sounded in my head:  _Men don't get raped_.

"So you can't press charges because you can't admit that you were raped." 

"Don't forget that whole blackmail thing," I interjected.

"There's nothing that you could have done that would be worse than this!" he insisted.  "You're just going to let him get away with beating, raping, and blackmailing you?!"  He completed the task, fixing the end in place.

"I'm getting rid of the problem," I said stubbornly, squirming uncomfortably in the tape.  If I'd thought having my ribs wrapped was painful when _I_ had done it, it was twice as bad when BJ did the job.  He did it right, and my skinned back was screaming in protest.

"You're sending the problem to someone else!  Hawk, he's a predator!" he emphasized.  "They don't typically stop at one victim!  You're going to let him go free to prey on some other person!"

Yeah, I was trying not to think about that.  "I don't know what else to do!"

"Turn him in!" he entreated me.  "Press charges against him!"

As much as I loved BJ, at that moment I really just wanted to shake him.  Preferably by the neck.  "I _can't_.  I can't do it Beej.  Please don't ask me again."

He huffed in exasperation but let the subject drop and moved on.  Pursing his lips, he fell silent for a moment, then said cautiously, "Alright, I need you to pull down your pants."

"Come again?" I asked in disbelief, eyebrows climbing.

"I have to do a perianal exam," he informed me mildly, obviously uncomfortable but just as obviously determined not to show it.

I glared at him.  "Oh no.  Nuh-uh.  No way."  No one would be getting anywhere near my genitals for a long time.

"Just let me do a visual," he wheedled.  It was almost as if he actually _wanted_ to look at my anus.

"I don't care if you use a telescope," I replied scathingly.  "It's not happening."

"I won't hurt you, and I promise it'll be quick."

"I don't think so," I told him firmly.

"We need to know the full extent of the damage," he reasoned.

"It's fine," I lied coldly.  "There's no damage.  I'm a doctor.  This is my professional assessment."

"You're obviously in pain," BJ argued.  I couldn't knock his observational skills.

I grabbed my discarded shirt (but didn't pull it back on – screw doing _that_ again tonight) and draped it over my arm.  "We're done here."

"Come on, Hawk.  It's S.O.P.  You know that."

"S.O.P. can kiss my ass."  I paused for a split second as the irony of that statement struck me.  "Figuratively speaking."

BJ ignored my retort.  "I really should have done it last time, but…."  But neither of us had desired to go there.  In addition to being humiliating, a rectal exam would escalate the attacks to an even more uncomfortable level of reality for the both of us.

"No.  Absolutely and irrevocably no.  End of discussion."

"Would you rather Colonel Potter do it?" he asked carefully.

" _No!_   Christ, get off it, will you?  It's not happening!  Nope, nah, nay, non, nein, iie, aniyo, and ad infinitum for 'absolutely not!'"

Apparently something in my tone – or maybe the sheer number of languages I'd employed – convinced him that further argument would be futile.  Eventually, after a minute of frustrated silence, he waved to the door.  "Fine.  Let's go get some ice and put you to bed."

Savagely burying the conversation that had just occurred, I adopted a coquettish grin – the effect almost certainly ruined by my split lip and swollen eye – and purred flirtatiously, "I thought you'd never ask."

A reluctant smile blossomed on his face.  "Had I known you were interested I would have skipped right past the X-rays, eye exam, splinter removal, and rib taping straight to packing ice around you in your cot."

"I'm always interested," I murmured slyly, then added practically, "but I think it's going to be a little too cold for that tonight."

"You know it will help."

"But... _cold_ ," I argued eloquently as we stepped out of the exam room.

"What about not letting your head swell to the size of a watermelon?"

"Maybe a baby watermelon wouldn't be so bad."

"You can have my blanket," he offered chivalrously.

_Awww_.  But still no dice.  "Unless you're volunteering some warm body to lie on top of me – er, beside me, definitely beside me – and keep me warm, I'm not interested."  I wasn't all that picky as to who the warm body would belong to, either.  As long as they didn't mind me shaking all night long – and not necessarily from the cold.

"You're impossible."

"I broke the mold."

"Thank God."

I laughed and followed him through the kitchen door.  Somehow I'd let him walk me there despite my protests about the ice.  Eh, whatever.  I'd humor the guy.  Until I got cold.  Then the ice was going in _his_ cot.

Finally, with ice in tow – and I made BJ carry it – we set out for the Swamp.  Upon our arrival I tossed the dirty shirt on the floor and painfully dropped my pants to my ankles.  BJ was a sweetheart and removed my boots, my trousers, and (God save him) my socks.  I absolutely refused to think of Donner as my friend stripped me, and was for the most part successful.  The pain from my various injuries helped by making the experience sufficiently different from the attacks.  And who would have imagined that I'd be thankful for _that_?

Once properly undressed I sank gingerly onto my stomach in my cot.  BJ wrapped the bags of ice in towels and various pieces of reasonably clean clothing and positioned them around my chest, placing the smallest over my left eye.  As soon as he had carefully positioned the last bag and gently covered me with both of our blankets I said, "Uh oh."

"What?" he asked me warily.

"I forgot to go to the little boys' room."  I tried to keep the mischief out of my voice.

"You're kidding," he said incredulously.

"Yeah yeah," I admitted, then added teasingly, "How'd you know?"  I heard a disbelieving laugh and bet that if I hadn't been so broken everywhere he would have smacked me.

As exhausted as I was, the pain kept me awake for what felt like forever.  I couldn't toss and turn but I did shift my weight frequently, causing the melting ice to slosh around.  Eventually BJ's cot creaked and I deduced that he'd sat up.  Apparently I wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping that night.

"Hurting too bad to sleep?"

I frowned.  "Yeah," I conceded.

"You were just taking APC capsules right?"

"Yeah.  I knew I might have to operate."

"Well you don't now.  Let's get you on something a little stronger."

"Dihydrocodeine?"  The opioid was a favorite of doctors for broken ribs because it suppressed coughing in addition to relieving pain.

"Yep."

"You won't hear me complaining."

BJ fetched me a bottle full of the drug and a cup of water.  Not too long after I took my dose I experienced the ecstasy of reduced pain.  I was finally able to escape into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All medical practices in this fic are based on the show and whatever information Google could provide me on procedures done in the early 1950s. I have no first-hand experience in this area (and elected to stop the research short of breaking my own ribs) and apologize for any mistakes I may have made. I wanted to go into this much detail in order to realistically depict the consequences that Hawkeye would have had to deal with. I hope I've done it some justice.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning I woke from a nightmare with a jerk into a dazed, surrealistic consciousness.  I had no real memory of the dream beyond the vague awareness that it had starred Donner.  I blinked my right eye several times as I tried to get my head together.

Was he beating me in the dream?  In the camp shower?  Had he …used me again on that wooden floor?

_Yeah, that's right_.  That nightmare in the shower – _it was just a nightmare!_   A flood of relief washed over me like a welcome tidal wave.  The corners of my mouth began to form a smile.

_...Wait_.  My breathing shuddered to a halt with the sensation of being dunked in a bath of ice water.

Why was my face throbbing, then?  Why did my chest hurt every time I drew breath?  Why was my back stinging?  Why was my rectum burning again?

_No_ , please let it have been a nightmare.  I was just imagining all of it.  _Please_.

I blearily brought my hand up and, pushing a cloth and corresponding bag off my eye, gently fingered the left side of my face, grimacing at what I felt there.

It was real.

The whole damn thing.

Real.

_Fuck_.

I lay on my cot for a little while, coming to terms with that unpleasant reality.  If only I hadn't had that sliver of hope.  That was probably what hurt the most, losing that hope.

Eventually I tuned into the here and now.  I was surrounded by bags of water wrapped in damp cloth.  And I was in pain.  A lot of pain.  In fact, that was most likely what woke me up, because I didn't feel like I'd slept eight hours.  I lay there for a bit longer thinking wistfully of morphine, anesthesia, or pretty much anything that would put me out of my misery.  Even a sledgehammer would have been welcome.

Finally I acknowledged that there would be no fairy godmother or angel of mercy delivering pain medication any time soon and that I'd have to do it myself.  Combating stiff muscles, I blearily struggled to roll over onto my side and sit up.  Shooting pains in my chest put a stop to that and I lay back down on my stomach, breathing shallowly.

Deciding on a different approach, I recalled how I'd gotten to my feet in the shower after... well, in the shower.  I planted my hands shoulder-width apart and extended my arms as if I was doing a push up.  Bags of water, towels, and miscellaneous articles of clothing cascaded off me as I rose to my knees.  Once upright I had to stop to pant, leaning toward my injured left side and wrapping my arms tightly around my torso.

When the agonizing pain faded to a more manageable level I stepped carefully off the cot and staggered to the still and the bottle of Dihydrocodeine.  I was pleased to see that the cup of water beside it was half full.  Or half empty.  Or whatever you called it when there was enough to take a pill with.  I grabbed the bottle with overeager (and shaky) hands and managed to fling it to the floor.

"No."  I watched it fall with dismay.  "No, no."  It bounced and rolled all the way behind BJ's bunk.  "No no no."  There was no way I could get back there right then.  I'd needed a game plan just to get off my damn cot.

I was cursing silently but colorfully and eyeing the place the bottle had disappeared to, wishing for telekinetic powers, when Frank appeared.  He wasn't a fairy godmother or an angel of mercy, but I'd take him.

Frank looked beat.  Well, not quite beat like I was, but pretty exhausted.  He must've been on the night shift, after hours of surgery.  It always sucked to pull that shift.

"Hiya, Frank," I greeted him genially.  Maybe I could sweet talk him into digging that pill bottle out for me.

"Oh, what's it to you?" he growled.

_Welp, might be out of luck here.  Worth a try though_.  "How's it going?" I asked as if I was interested.

"Nerts to you!"

_Yep, this looks promising_.  "Frank, I hate to ask this but I need a favor."  I tried to sound as pleasant and innocuous as humanly possible.

"Go stuff it in your ear!" he snarled.

I continued as if I hadn't heard him.  "I just got the snot beat out of me yesterday and my broken ribs are killing me.  Would you be a really swell bunkie and dig my bottle of pills out from under BJ's bed?  It tried to run away."

"Not on your life!  You deserve it for getting into fights!"

Ah, I was just overwhelmed by the brotherly love and caring that Frank exuded.  What a humanitarian, that Ferret Face.

"Frank, there was no fighting," I explained patiently.  "There was just me getting beat on."

He paused.  "Why'd you do that?"  His defensiveness seemed to be slowly eroding.

"Trust me, it wasn't by choice," I assured him dryly.

"Well why don't you turn the guy in?  The guy who keeps beating you up?" he asked, seeming honestly curious.  We were practically having a real conversation.  Alert the press.

"It's complicated," I admitted.

I knew how thrilled Frank would be to hear the news that Donner was holding over me.  He'd have that letter to headquarters outing me as a sexual deviant and demanding my dishonorable discharge typed up and mailed out within ten minutes of finding out.  Then he'd probably throw a party that only Margaret (and possibly the camp cook, who must hate me) would attend.  There'd be champagne, party streamers, and probably sex (but not with the cook).

Oh.  Hmm.  Reality.  Oh yes.  Frank was saying something.

" – tell me.  I'm a great listener, and I won't tell a soul."  I wasn't sure if he was sincerely reaching out for human contact or merely fishing for information to share with Margaret in their next gossip session, but if I had to place a wager I'd bet on the latter.

"Thanks Frank, I really appreciate the offer, but I can't talk about it.  I promised someone I wouldn't tell."  _Yeah – **me**!_

"Oh, well, I understand.  A promise is a promise, after all."

My eyebrows quirked upward of their own volition.  Was Frank Burns showing a real, live, human side?  That tiny piece of humanity that would peek out every few months?  I decided to push my luck.  I made a show of bending slightly with a groan to look under BJ's cot in hopes that he'd get the hint.

"So you said the bottle rolled under Hunnicutt's bunk?"

Yes!  Hint taken.  I sent a genuine smile his way.  Sometimes the guy surprised you.  (Most of the time he didn't.)  "Yeah, it flew behind there," I said, pointing, "and I just can't get down there right now to dig it out."

He got down on his knees and peered under the cot with the air of a man about to stick his arm into a pit of snakes.  I didn't really blame him.  Who knew what was growing under there?  And if the microorganisms didn't get you there was always the possibility that the indigenous rat colony would take issue with someone digging around in their living room.  Of course, ferrets and rats had a lot in common; the rats might welcome him like the 87th son they never had.

Okay, I really needed to stop silently mocking the guy who was doing me a favor _while_ he was doing said favor.  I was starting to make myself feel bad.

Frank gathered the necessary courage and stuck his hand into the black abyss.  I heard him rummage around for a minute before he exclaimed quietly, "Gotcha!"  He withdrew his arm and produced my bottle of Dihydrocodeine.  And a sock that had somehow wrapped itself around the bottle.  Lovely.

"Thanks Frank," I told him with a heartfelt smile as he handed me the pills.

"Anytime, buddy... pal," he fawned.

Frank was strange that way.  On one hand he could spew copious amounts of malice toward almost anyone and ineptitude toward almost any _thing_ , but on the other hand he was just dying for someone to care for him.  If he wasn't such a rotten human being I'd pity him.

Directing my attentions to something much more important, I carefully unscrewed the top from the bottle and shook out a pill, then tossed it back with the remnants of the water.  Mission complete, I dropped the bottle in my footlocker and carefully lay back down on my cot, where I planned to stay until the medicine kicked in.

"Oh!"  Before he fell asleep....  "Do you know where BJ is?"  I thought that morning was Colonel Potter's shift.

"Oh, they're still operating.  More wounded arrived at dawn."

"Ah."  That sympathy I'd garnered toward Frank was fading fast.  After he got done taking care of me BJ couldn't have slept four hours.

I wished I wasn't sidelined for this push.  If I hadn't just taken an opioid I would have given serious thought to scrubbing up.  But then we probably would have had a replay of Potter evicting me from the hospital.  And really, I could understand his point of view.  I could.  What I couldn't stand was the idea of some kid dying because they were too backed up in the O.R.

I lay there for a while feeling frustrated and powerless.  In fact, I spent pretty much all day feeling that way, with a large helping of boredom thrown into the mix.  With the compound as deserted as it was the day before, I was afraid to even go to the latrine.  A plan wouldn't save my butt if Donner didn't give me a chance to tell him about it, and his conversation starter consistently took the form of a hand wrapping around my throat.  And I definitely wanted to inform him of my plan in as public and crowded a setting as possible to preclude the possibility of him deciding to kill me and get rid of the problem that way.  Because after that last attack I worried that he wouldn't have as big of an issue with murder as I'd previously thought.  I was starting to suspect that not everyone at the hospital had my level of respect for life.

What I did get to do for four hours of the morning was listen to Frank making those little whimpering/whining sounds he does while he sleeps.  I heard a few, "Oh Margaret"s, a "Mommy," and a "Yes, dear," from his side of the tent and felt more than a little voyeuristic.  I was both glad and disappointed when Radar came to wake him for surgery.  There went my source of entertainment.

I sipped gin from early morning through the afternoon but, in deference to the narcotic in my system, didn't go overboard for once.

I spent that morning writing my second letter to Reynolds.  I was being cautious of the contents (who knew when some nosy company clerk might happen upon a mysteriously opened envelope) and was censoring the events of the past few days as well (I hated to worry him unnecessarily).  Right after noon I was working on the third page when BJ came in looking absolutely exhausted.

"Hey Beej," I said, glad both that he was getting a break and that I was getting a distraction, though undoubtedly not for long.  "Wow, you look worse than I feel."

"You feel that amazing, huh?" he said, flashing a grin.  He had a seat on his cot and pulled off his clown-sized boots.

I chuckled, then sobered.  "Are there a lot more still coming?" I asked with a jerk of my head to indicate the hospital and wounded.

"Nah," he replied.  "Should be done by dinnertime."

"Oh good."

"Wake me then."  He stretched out on his bed.

"Will do.  'Good night, sweet prince.'"

"I hope 'flights of angels' won't sing me to my rest," he replied with amusement.

"Depends on how long you sleep," I told him impishly.

He laughed.  "Then don't forget to wake me.  My life is in your hands."

"You probably won't meet Hamlet's fate then," I comforted him.

"That's good to hear," he mumbled.  Then his head came back up off the pillow.  "Wait.  _Probably_?"

"In all likelihood.  Only the slimmest of possibilities exists."

"But the possibility _does_ exist for me to die and take a bunch of people out with me?"

"Well, I'm not sure if we have enough people in the camp to reenact Hamlet, honestly," I jested.

"That's ...reassuring?"  For some strange reason he didn't sound very reassured.

I grinned.  "Go to sleep, silly."

My smile didn't fade until well after I heard his breathing slow and even out.

 

* * *

 

 

I was encouraged when I saw personnel start to file out of the hospital.  There was soon a line for the latrines and the shower but much less traffic around the compound than usual, suggesting that most people had sacked out.  Pushes could be rough.

I was thrilled when the P.A. system announced that dinner was being served ("Eat it before it eats you!").  Not only because I was starving but also because I'd decided to spend mealtimes staking out the mess tent for Donner.  I probably wouldn't _talk_ to him there, but I could give him a time and a place for him to meet me on my terms.  However, I had to find him first.

"Beej," I said, struggling to my feet.  I crossed the small space between our cots and shook him gently with a hand on his shoulder.

"Huh?  What?"  He opened his eyes and blinked at me, disoriented.

I patted his bicep fondly.  "It's dinner time," I informed him, straightening with a groan.

He parroted the sound.  "Oh.  Ugh."

"You can go back to sleep, Caveman Og, but you might regret not eating later."  He was a big boy.  He could make his own decisions.

"No.  I'll – nngh – I'll come."  He managed to pull himself into a sitting position and scrubbed at his face with his hands.

I walked back to my side of the tent and grabbed my robe.  Screw putting on a shirt.  I noted the stiffness from the dried blood on the back of the bathrobe; I needed to wash it before it started smelling rancid.  I painfully stuffed my arms into the sleeves and pulled it over my shoulders.

I thought to check the mirror as I smoothed my hair.  "Wow, I look horrific!" my mouth exclaimed autonomously.  Now in addition to my grotesquely swollen eye I had vibrant blues, purples, and black painted all over the left side of my face, around my chin, and in that damn handprint around my throat.

"I don't think black and blue are your colors," BJ replied with a deceptively light tone, pulling on his boots.

"I'm seeing a little better," I reported.  "Still blurry, but more clearly defined edges."  I closed my good eye.  "I mean, I can tell that you're a man now," I clarified.

"I looked like a woman before?" he asked with a knowing grin, touching my elbow to steer me to the door.

The contact didn't bother me, I noted with a budding smile.  "I thought Audrey Hepburn was operating the next table over," I joked, unable to keep the mirth from my voice for a more masterful delivery.

That was rewarded with a full-throated laugh.  "I'm surprised you weren't hitting on me all night."  We exited the Swamp en route to the mess tent.

"Of course I was!  Really, not hit on Audrey Hepburn?  Are you nuts?"  Then I adopted a worried tone and continued before he could reply.  "You honestly didn't notice?  I must be losing my touch."

"Am _I_ nuts?  I'm not the one who thought a 6'3" male doctor – however handsome he may be – was a tiny, beautiful famous actress!"

Hell, I'd sleep with either one of them.  But it didn't do to say such things.

"Well I got the hair color kind of right," I said with mock defensiveness.

"By that logic I could be Frank!"  BJ pulled open the door of the mess tent.

"Hey, you said it, not me."

Dinner seemed to be in full swing and I paused a moment at the door to check the sea of faces for Donner.  I was half relieved, half disappointed (well, maybe mostly relieved and slightly disappointed) to find that he wasn't in the tent.  BJ watched my expression closely and apparently found the answer he was looking for there.  He continued on to the line, handing me my tray when I caught up.  I was pleased to note that, while I still garnered some stares, at least the entire mess tent wasn't silently gawking at me.

"I'd kind of rather be there when you talk to the guy," my friend told me as we sidled along with our trays out.

"That _kind of_ defeats the purpose, Beej.  Otherwise I'd be all for it.  (Yeah, succotash is fine.)"

"What if I promise not to tell anyone who he is?  (That green stuff, please.)"

"How do I know you won't go off half-cocked on some sort of rescue mission?  (No thanks – are you sure that's even edible?)"

He sent me a wounded look.  "When –  (Ah, ham's good.  No, turkey.  No, ham.  Eh, both.)  When have I broken a promise to you?"

"I'm willing to bet it'll be when you think it's best for me."  I eyed a strange brown mound with caution.  "What's that?" I asked Igor.

"Anchovies, sir," the private replied.

" _Anchovies?!_   Why would – never mind.  I'm not going to ask.  Thanks but no thanks."  I skipped that last gem and started filling up a cup of coffee.

"You've already told me you won't press charges – what good will it do me to turn him in?"  BJ waited for me, then led the way to an open end of a table.

"Colonel Potter could probably still figure out a way to punish him."  We both sat; I perched uncomfortably on the edge of the hard bench.

"Can you not just trust me on this one thing?"  BJ sounded hurt, and I guess I didn't blame him.

I thought about it.  I trusted this man with my life, right?  Well, to save my life, sure.  He was a capable doctor and my best friend.  But what about if he thought I was making the wrong call on a decision that affected my future?  Would I still trust him to support my decision regardless of his beliefs?

"Evening, boys.  This seat taken?"  Colonel Potter approached from my left and gestured to a seat across from us, startling me from my thoughts.  My left eye had shown me that someone was coming but I'd had to wait to hear his voice to ascertain his identity.  The wave of his arm was obvious enough despite my impaired vision – a blur of motion in the direction of our table.

I sent BJ a 'we'll talk later' look and pulled together a smile for the colonel.  "Not at all; here's two feet of board with your name all over it," I said with a nod toward the bench he'd indicated.

"That eye treating you any better?" the C.O. asked as he settled in.

"A little.  I could see that you were coming over, but not who you were."

"Well, it's good that it's improving.  Keep me up to date."  I nodded my assent.

I spotted Father Mulcahy wandering by with a full tray, obviously scouting for a place to eat.  His eyes settled on me, shifted uncomfortably, and kept moving.  He was pulled up short by Potter's invitation, however.

"Padre!  Come join us," the colonel said with a jerk of his chin toward the empty space next to him.

The father smiled stiffly at the three of us, eyeing me with a good deal of discomfort, but didn't decline the invite.  "How are you doing, Hawkeye?" he asked a bit awkwardly.

"Better," I said honestly, trying not to be hurt by his behavior.  "Thanks to you."

As we conversed his wooden smile slipped a tiny bit despite what was obviously his best effort.  "Glad to hear it.  And remember, my door is always open to you should you wish to talk."

I returned the smile more successfully and kept my face otherwise studiously blank.  The only thing he wanted to talk about was how evil my sexual inclinations were.  I'd pass.

Margaret arrived and, as usual, wanted to hear the latest story.  "What little lady punched you this time?" she asked with a snicker.

"Well," I said, devising a tale and quickly hitting my stride, "while you were all in surgery I was called to a little shack down the road a ways.  This Korean girl was in labor," I explained.  "Now, it went by pretty quickly.  There was a bunch of creative sign language going on because only the little sister knew a few words of English, but we got our meanings across eventually.  You should have seen me trying to act out 'contraction.'"  That garnered a few chuckles.  "Anyway, a couple hours after I arrived she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.  A _big_ baby boy.  Unfortunately for _me_ , that kid popped out so fast that he smacked me in the face and kept flying right on by!"  I pantomimed the supposed delivery with my hands depicting my face and the bouncing baby missile.  "His grandma was standing behind me, luckily, and she caught him before he hit the wall with the finesse of a pro-football wide receiver."  I paused for the space of a breath as if in thought.  "I really hope the kid grows up to play baseball, because he's got that slide into home base perfected.  Or out of home base, as the case may be."

Margaret grinned but shook her head.  "That wouldn't explain the broken ribs," she said archly.

Everyone's eyes turned to me.  I sent a questioning look to BJ, who shrugged.

"What broken ribs?" I asked her suspiciously.

"The ones that are making you move stiffly and ice your chest.  The reason you're taking Dihydrocodeine."

Ahhh, Frank had squealed.  Why was I not surprised?

I couldn't keep a crooked grin off my face when I told her, "The story of the black eye is free; the story of the fractured ribs is ten bucks."

"I bet it'll be just as true as the one for the black eye," she said with a chuckle.

"Would I lie to you?" I asked as innocently as possible.

" _Yes!_ " she laughed loudly.

I couldn't keep myself from laughing in reply, but quickly stopped to clutch my ribs.  "Okay, okay, I prescribe myself six weeks of no laughing."  I took an invisible pen and wrote that on an invisible prescription pad.  Then I stopped and thought about it.  Humor was my best defense mechanism.  Against the war, against death, against being attacked and violated.  That was one doctor's order I wouldn't be able to keep.  "Eh, never mind.  Scratch that."  I pantomimed ripping up the invisible paper and tossed the invisible pieces over the mess hall table.  My friends watched with amusement.

Klinger joined our merry group and claimed the seat next to me.  "Hawkeye, are you alright?" he asked with wide eyes.  "You look kinda rough."

"Never been better," I said with very faked gusto.

"What happened to your face?"

Everyone else's faces morphed into expressions of anticipated amusement.

"Okay, so.  You know how I'm always picking on Frank?"

Margaret's eyes snapped to mine.  Klinger grinned and nodded; everyone in _Korea_ knew how I was always picking on Frank.

"Well he writes all this to his mommy, see?  And finally she got so fed up that she hopped on a flight to Tokyo and then smuggled herself onto a plane to Kimpo.  So she showed up in camp the other day!  And _boy_ , was she mad."  BJ chuckled at my overdramatic delivery.  "I tried to talk the lady down – because of course I don't hit women, and I wasn't incredibly thrilled about being hit _by_ a woman – but she wasn't having any of that.  She just up and smacked me in the eye with her tiny – but _hard_ – little fist, then turned around and caught the next flight out.  I'm not even sure she took the time to say hi to Frank."

By the time I got to the end everyone's reactions ranged from decidedly non-masculine giggles (BJ) to reluctant grins coupled with contrite headshakes (Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy).  Even Margaret seemed to find something to chuckle at.  I thought for sure she'd have punched me in the face and given me a new story to tell.

We'd all sobered by the time the next member joined the group.  "Hey gang," Frank said, approaching the seat next to Margaret.  Half of the people at our table sprouted poorly-suppressed grins, and even Potter couldn't contain a crooked smile.  Frank stood there with his tray wearing the most bewildered expression I'd ever seen.

I took pity on him.  "Have a seat Frank.  I just finished telling them the story of how your mommy gave me these bruises."

"My –  She. Did. Not!" he huffed, outraged.

"Oh, so she didn't stop to say hey to you," I commiserated.  BJ dissolved into more irrepressible giggles.

"You know, I thought we shared a good moment this morning," Frank said bitterly as he stood there with his tray in hand.  "I thought we could have moved forward from that point."  I started to feel kind of bad.  "But it looks like you can never take anything seriously long enough for something like that to matter.  What that man did to you – I think it serves you right!"

BJ and Colonel Potter jumped to my defense.  I noted Father Mulcahy's silence and the inscrutable look he sent my way.  Perhaps he agreed with Frank.

"No, no," I said with a raised hand, putting a halt to the objections.  The table quieted and everybody looked to me.  "No, he's right," I said quietly.  "I'm sorry Frank," I told him mostly-sincerely.  "I really appreciate what you did for me this morning and it was shitty of me to use your mother as part of my joke.  If I had a chance to do it all over again I probably wouldn't change a thing, but it was wrong of me all the same."

Around the table I saw mouths dropping open.  Margaret was giving me what I could only describe as an approving glare and Frank appeared mollified, taking a seat next to her.

"What on earth did he _do_ for you this morning?" BJ whispered incredulously.

"Grabbed the Dihydrocodeine for me after it tried to escape," I replied in kind.  I decided that there was a lesson to be learned there:  fetch someone's pain medication and they'll be nice to you until the day they're pain free.  Nice _r_ , at least.  Within reason.

BJ smirked.  Apparently he was reaching a similar conclusion.

Radar dropped into the seat on the other side of Frank.  He had the usual fare on his tray.  By which I mean most of the food that the cook had had left over from earlier that week.  And possibly the week before from the looks of it.  Radar looked around and nodded to everyone, mouth already full.

I was glad to see that he wasn't acting squirrely around me again.  Which reminded me....  I sat up in my seat slightly to scan the faces of the thinning crowd.  Still no sign of Donner.  BJ observed me knowingly.

Over the course of the evening the group disbanded as people finished their food and their socializing.  Eventually BJ and I were watching Radar eat in the mostly empty mess tent.  The stench of anchovies had permeated our end of the table.

"I think it's safe to say that he's not coming tonight," BJ finally concluded.

I surveyed the quiet tent glumly.  "Yeah, you're probably right," I admitted.  When did this guy eat?

"Of course I'm right.  I'm always right."

"Yeah right," I scoffed.

"I'm right as rain."

"Anyone in their right mind can see that you're not right in the head."

Radar stopped shoveling food into his mouth in order to more efficiently stare at the two of us.

"At least my heart is in the right place."

"Well, I suppose that's a step in the right direction."

The kid's mouth dropped open and the partially chewed food he hadn't yet swallowed teetered on the brink of falling out.

"I'm on the right track."

"Play your cards right and you could wind up in the right place at the right time!"  Hah!  I got three!

"You're completely right!  I'll be right there."

"You'd better make sure you get it right right off the bat."

"Hey, it's my God-given right to get it wrong."

"Ah" – I pointed an index finger at him – "but two wrongs don't make a right."

"That's right.  I'll put it to rights right away."  And he got three.

"…I'm... struggling to find the right words."  It was unfortunately true.

"You'd do right to worry."

I hesitated.  "Right back at you," I finally said lamely.

"Oh Hawk, you've just lost any bragging rights.  In fact, I now have you dead to rights."

"Do right by me," I entreated with the air of a soon-to-be guillotine victim requesting a clean death.

"Nope, not right now."

I dropped my head in defeat.  BJ was always punnier than me.

Radar suddenly seemed to remember that there was food in his mouth and on his plate and resumed his gluttony after sending each of us a deeply disturbed glance.  I shared a smile with BJ.

With a cursory scan of the empty mess tent I clapped Radar on the shoulder in farewell ("'Til tomorrow's new morn, I bid thee adieu") then rose and dumped my tray as I exited.  BJ pulled up beside me with a 'what now?' expression.

"Why don't we head to the Officers' Club for the night?"  I knew that Donner showed up there every once in a while.

BJ nodded.  "Whatever you want to do.  I work the night shift though."  That was one of the disadvantages to having only three surgeons available – no days off.  I frowned guiltily but BJ's mind had moved on to the next subject.  "I know you're not planning on drinking while on pain meds.  Right?"  We started drifting toward the Officers' Club.

"How about... four drinks per hour?  That seems fair, don't you think?"  I started high, figuring we'd probably strike a deal at two.  No, you're not exactly supposed to mix Dihydrocodeine and alcohol, but all it really did was increase the side-effects from the alcohol.  I hadn't had a problem with it earlier that day, but I decided not to mention that to him.  "If I start feeling dizzy or ill I'll stop," I assured him.  "If I start feeling sleepy then, hallelujah, I'll go to bed."

BJ chuckled at that last bit.  "How about one drink an hour."

"Three," I bid.

"Mmmm.  Two."

"Sold."

As I staked out the O-Club for the monster haunting both my dreams and my waking hours I felt anxiety rising in my gut.  The chatter of our table in the mess tent hadn't followed us to the O.C. and I didn't have enough distraction to keep my cool.

"Talk to me," I entreated BJ.  Between the lump in my throat and my dry mouth it was hard to force the words out.

"Sure," he said amenably, putting his glass down and pausing in thought.  "So why can't you trust me to know who this man is?" he asked earnestly after a moment's contemplation.  "All I want is to make sure you don't get hurt again."

I frowned.  "That isn't exactly what I had in mind for the subject matter of our conversation."

"That's what you get for not specifying," he informed me impishly.

"O _kay_.  Talk to me about something _nice_.  Something _happy_.  Fluffy bunnies or rainbows and unicorns or something.  Even better:  naked goddesses.  I'm open to suggestions."

BJ chuckled.  "You said we would continue this conversation later.  It just so happens to be later."

"I never said that."  I fondled my glass absentmindedly.

"It was in the look you gave me."

"Ah, but" – I pointed at him with the hand holding my glass – "how do you know that look didn't mean something like, 'Go to the minefield and pick some juniper berries for our gin'?"

"Because you love me."

I laughed.  "Do I, now?"

He broke out the hurt tone again.  "Why don't you trust me?"

I huffed in annoyance.  He was like a dog with a bone.  "It's not that I don't trust you."

"It really is.  You don't trust me not to go behind your back or over your head to blow the whistle on this guy."

Well.  He was kind of right.  Time for damage control.  "It's just... it's just that there would be some very serious consequences if this guy turned us in.  I'm sorry to hurt your –"

A shocked BJ cut me off.  " _Us?!_ "

_Oops_.  I froze.  "Me!  I meant me."  This was what I got for not carefully formulating my replies.  "I don't know why I would have said 'us,' it's really quite odd, now that you've brought it to my attention I'd –"

"Who is _us_?" he asked suspiciously, obviously not willing to wait for my run-on sentence of bullshit to come to a natural conclusion.  I didn't blame him; it could have gone on for an hour based on the rate that new lies were popping into my head.

"'Us' is the plural of 'me.'  I bet you never knew I was a plural, did you?"  I idly sipped my drink, mind going a mile a minute.

"Hawk, is he blackmailing someone else too?" BJ demanded.

"Who said anything about blackmailing?  I was talking about plurals and singulars."

"If he's blackmailing someone else they are very much in danger."

No.  Even if Reynolds was still in camp he'd be fairly safe; he could take care of himself.  If Donner had tried to hurt _him_ my sergeant would have seriously damaged the kid regardless of the potential consequences.  So I guess we were lucky that Donner had targeted me instead of Reynolds, if I had to look at it that way.  I'd kept my mouth shut, hadn't put forth any notable amount of resistance, and Donner hadn't ruined our lives.  Now that I knew I had a plan to escape this hellacious cycle I could more confidently say that saving our futures was worth all of this.  Of course, I'd had given almost anything for the attacks not to have occurred, but the key word there was ' _almost_.'

"You need to give us their names so we can keep them safe."

I shifted my train of thought.  I couldn't tell my friend anything.  If I said 'he's safe now' I would be admitting that it was another man, and BJ would be asking himself what Donner had a picture of two men doing that I was willing to go through all of this to hide.  Even if I told him 'they' were safe he might infer that the other party was no longer in camp, which could lead him to the possibility that the person was a patient.  And the vast majority of our patients were men.  No, I had to keep my mouth shut.

All of this for one make-out session and grope-fest.  It seemed a little unfair.  I mean, if this really had to happen – if it was fate, or written in the stars, or God's will, or what-the-hell-ever – why couldn't I at least have gotten to have _sex_ with the man?

" _Hawkeye_."  BJ sounded a bit impatient.

"Yo," I said mildly, spinning my glass on the surface of the table.

"Do you think that you're protecting someone?"

_Yes!_   _Me!_   "This conversation is over," I told him firmly.  It had been over for a while.  It probably couldn't even qualify as a conversation any more.  It was more like BJ's persistent monologue.  "Move on to something else."

"Like what?" he asked grudgingly, apparently realizing that he wasn't getting anything out of me on the subject.

"Like, the next round's on you."

BJ rolled his eyes but humored me, gathering our empty glasses and heading to the bar.

In the relatively short span of time we spent nursing drinks in the O-Club I caught not a single glimpse of Donner.  I knew he came there occasionally but apparently that evening it wasn't in the cards.

I only made it two hours, tops, before exhaustion hit me like a freight train.  It could have been drowsiness from the opiate and alcohol interaction, but there was a serious lack of energy involved that made me think my injuries may have been taking their toll.

"You really should put some ice on that shiner," BJ informed me as we made our slow getaway.  "It looks, ah, impressive.  Even more impressive, that is."

I had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't the good kind of impressive.  "Well, if you insist," I said, stiffly pushing the door open and wishing I'd waited for BJ to do it.

BJ watched the way I moved.  "When was the last time you took something for the pain?"

"A little after two."

"I'd say it's time for another dose.  Let's go grab some ice and get you to the Swamp."  We adjusted our course to cross the short distance to the kitchen.

"Are you trying to get me into bed again?" I teased.

"It's such a good way to break the ice," he deadpanned.

"We can't have ice things if you keep breaking them," I shot back.

"Icy what you did there."  He opened the door to the kitchen with a grin.

It appeared that some poor enlisted man had cleaned up the scene of my earlier mishap.  Ignoring the twinge of guilt, I answered BJ's grin with a genuine smile of my own.

"You really think this is going to work," he half-asked, half-said as I gingerly weighed him down with bags of ice.  I shot him a questioning glance.  "Your plan," he clarified.

"Oh.  Yeah, I do.  I feel good about it."  Evidently my confidence was apparent in my tone.

He nodded with obvious relief.  "I'm glad to hear that."

I was proud of myself for remembering to grab a cup of water before we left.  I really needed to keep a canteen around to take the Dihydrocodeine with.  Well, a canteen with something besides liquor in it.

"Have you been doing your deep breathing?" BJ asked in his doctor voice as we marched back to our tent, laden with ice.  Well, he was laden with ice.  I had my cup to carry.

I scowled at his reminder.  No, I hadn't been doing any deep breathing.  It was painful and I was ashamed of ever telling my patients with broken ribs to do it.  I would have completely deserved it if one of them had hauled off and smacked me.

"You're funny," I mumbled.

"When you get pneumonia and die I'm going to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Duly noted."

"But seriously, Hawk.  Do your deep breathing."

"Yeah yeah," I said vaguely.

As soon as we hit the Swamp I set the cup of water down and dived into bed.  Well, not really 'dived.'  More like 'lowered myself very carefully.'  But the mental enthusiasm was there.

"Are you going to sleep in your boots?" BJ asked me, amused.

"Sure," I mumbled.  "Sounds good to me."

I hadn't done anything that could have been considered remotely taxing that day but I was still ridiculously drained.  I had a novel personal understanding of how the boys in Post-Op could sleep so much.  Having a serious injury was more than just painful – it was exhausting.  I was a bit proud of myself for lasting so long in the O.R. the day before, once I thought of it.  Granted, the caffeine in the APC probably could get a lot of the credit there.

"Where's your Dihydrocodeine?" BJ asked as he unloaded the ice onto his cot for the time being.

"My footlocker, on the right."

I heard him rummage around for a moment, then stop.

"Hawk.  What's this?"

At his tone I sat up slowly, tipped off that something was wrong.  "What?"

BJ held up a very, very familiar bottle.  I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach.

"Phenobarbital," I said quietly.  No use lying; he could read that on the label.

"What's it doing in your footlocker?"  His tone was quite foreboding.

I debated my options.  They weren't pretty.  I opted for honesty.  It wasn't like he couldn't reach the same or worse conclusions without me.  Maybe I could salvage some aspect of the small calamity.

"I was having trouble with anxiety for a while," I explained softly.  "I was giving myself little doses to cope."

"How long is 'a while'?"  BJ's voice was low but dangerous.

"Since the first, uh, attack."

"What are 'little doses'?"

"20 milligrams."

"How often?"

"Not very.  Just if I have an anxiety attack."

"Uh huh.  Care to be more specific?"

"I can count on one hand the number of times I've used it."  I stopped and made sure of that.  Yep, four times.

"Have you been operating while taking it?"

"Not since that first time."

"Have you been taking it with the Dihydrocodeine?"

"No, I'm not stupid."  I felt a little insulted.

"Okay, on that note let's return to the part where you _stole_ an _entire bottle_ of a _drug_ to _dope_ yourself."

"I was going to return it after I didn't need it anymore," I told him defensively.

"I thought you weren't taking it with the Dihydrocodeine."

"Well, I'm not."  I hadn't needed it since I started on the pain medication.

"Then why was it still in your footlocker?"

"I hadn't gotten around to returning it yet."  _And I'd really rather wait until this mess with Donner gets solved_.

"So you won't object if I return it for you."

_Yes!  Yes I would_.  "Well.  Uh.  Let me do it."  _Later.  Much later_.

"Hawkeye!  Do you _hear_ yourself?!  This is addict behavior!"

"I'm not addicted to it and I'm not abusing it!"  My hands were 'talking' with enthusiasm despite my ribs.  "I'm a doctor!  I know the difference!"  I was using it as a crutch, like I did alcohol.  ...Hmm, maybe that wouldn't be a good analogy to make.  "There's nothing to be concerned about here!"

"' _Nothing'_ –  Hawk, you had an entire bottle of a sedative stashed in your footlocker!  With used syringes!  The same sedative that you previously took before _operating_.  That _concerns_ me!"

"Look, just let me keep it until I'm done with this mess with –" I cut myself off before I spoke his name.  Wow, that would have been brilliant.  To go through all of this and then ruin it with a slip of the tongue.  "With _him_ ," I finished unnecessarily.

"Do you feel like you _need_ this stuff?" BJ asked guardedly.

"No.  But just knowing that it's there, knowing that... that relief is available should I" – _don't say need_ – "want it, that makes a huge difference.  It's like a security blanket.  I don't _need_ it, but it makes me feel better."

My friend studied my face and I met his gaze openly.  Finally he seemed to reach a conclusion.

"Okay," he said with a nod.  "You still have access to it, but you have to get your doses from me."

"That's not exactly free access Beej," I said irritably.

"I never said ' _free_ ' access," he pointed out.

"What if you're in surgery?" I asked desperately.  "Or on shift?  Or in the area where I saw the guy in the first place?  Only on one of the occasions that I used it were you available."

"Hawk, you've got to understand that I can't just leave you with the _stolen_ bottle of _sedative_ that you've been _secretly_ taking.  Not only would I be negligent as a doctor but I'd also be irresponsible as a friend.  You've got to see that."

I pursed my lips.  Yeah, I guessed I could see that.  The situation did look kind of bad from an outsider's perspective.  Then a new concern occurred to me.  "Are you going to tell Colonel Potter?"  He'd never let me operate again.

He frowned.  "I don't know.  I want to see how this goes first."

Uh huh.  He was testing me.   _Dammit_.  I could either hope and pray that the next time I needed Phenobarbital he was available or I could nab another bottle from the pharmacy.  He might get suspicious, though, if I started locking my trunk.  And who knows, he might even keep an eye on the stock of Phenobarbital bottles to make sure none went missing.  But it still really worried me to not have a supply should I need it.

I realized he was watching me expectantly.  I jerked my head in a nod.  "Alright," I said expressionlessly.  Then I gestured toward my footlocker.  "Can I have the Dihydrocodeine now, or are you going to confiscate that too?"  I hadn't meant to say that last part, and certainly not in that aggressively bitter tone, but I was still angry enough to bite back an apology.

"Look, Hawk, I really am sorry."  He handed me a pill and the cup of water.

I accepted them with poor grace, handing the cup back when I was done.  "Thanks," I muttered.

BJ stuck the bottle of Dihydrocodeine back in my trunk and fished the syringes out, placing them on his cot with the Phenobarbital.  I eyed the sedative resentfully for a moment before lying down on my stomach.  BJ contritely removed my boots for me and packed the bags of ice around my chest and on my face.  He patted my arm when he was done.

"Night, Hawk."

"Night," I replied softly.

I heard him exit the tent to dispose of my safety blanket.


	12. Chapter 12

I wound up catching sight of Donner during breakfast the next day.  I was eating alongside BJ and Margaret.  I wasn't even looking for him at the moment but suddenly that blonde head stuck out above the sea of faces.  My chest constricted, making me fight for breath.  I was suddenly lightheaded and my fork, laden with some unidentifiable substance that the cook claimed was eggs, fell to my plate with a clatter.  I tried desperately to force my panicked brain to remember the game plan.  Step one was to ditch my companions.  I certainly couldn't go up to him in full view of BJ.  I mean, I wasn't a snob, but I also didn't often single out random enlisted men for chats.  My friend would do the math, put a face and name to the kid who had assaulted me, and could very easily ruin it for me.  I'd have to wait until Donner was done, lose BJ somehow, and catch the son of a bitch before he got out of the public eye.

BJ noticed that I'd hardly touched my food.  "You need to eat," he reminded me in a motherly voice with a nod toward my full plate.  "You should be trying to get _more_ protein and calcium than usual, not less."

I glared at him but picked up my fork and moved the food around a little.  There was no way I could eat with Donner sitting right over there.

Breakfast stretched on and on.  I kept stealing what I hoped were covert glances to monitor Donner's progress.  Finally, after a veritable eternity, he rose with his tray.

"I'm going to run to the little boys' room," I announced, trusting that to keep BJ from joining me.  I hopped up as quickly as I could manage.  "Ta ta for now!"  I hoped like hell that he would stay put.

Donner dumped his tray and I did the same right behind him, struggling to maintain my cool.  Then, as he began to head off into the compound, I snagged his elbow.  The teen started violently, jerking his arm out of my grasp.  I couldn't help myself – I flinched hard.  When I opened my eyes he was smirking at me.  _That_ smirk.

I had to hold it together.  _Had_ to.  Could _not_ go to pieces right in front of the mess tent.  In front of _him_.  I swallowed thickly.  "Let's talk," I said with more bravado than I knew I possessed.

Donner spread his arms.  "Lead the way," he said with a contemptuous grin.

"Not now," I replied sharply, trying to keep my tremor out of my voice.  "Tonight.  The O-Club.  Ten o'clock."

"It's a date," he purred mockingly before striding away.  I watched him walk, all rangy limbs and supple grace.  It was still hard to believe that someone so young could be such a monster.  He must have started early.  I wondered how many small animals he'd choked to death as a child.

BJ came up behind me as I watched Donner leave.  I felt his presence at my back even before he spoke.  He seemed to be struggling for words.

I turned to face him, feeling insanely vulnerable.  I watched a plethora of emotions cross his face before he finally decided on something to say.

"So when are you meeting him?" he asked quietly as we started toward the Swamp on some unspoken signal.

"Tonight at the O-Club."

"Tonight's my shift in Post-Op," he said suspiciously.

I feigned ignorance.  "Oh, is it?"

That was actually one of the reasons I'd chosen that time for the meet.  It wasn't that I didn't want BJ babysitting me – that wouldn't have bothered me terribly.  It might actually have made me feel a little better about the entire thing, in all honesty.  But I was afraid that Donner might decide to sell me out if BJ's presence made him think he'd been discovered.  And he had been.  I was forced to trust that my friend would accept my decision and not turn Donner in himself.

"Don't you know I can see right through you?"  He pulled open the Swamp door and held it for me chivalrously, then followed me in.

Yeah, I knew.  My mouth turned up in a wry smile.

I met BJ's enigmatic expression and raised my eyebrows to ask 'what?'  His eyes narrowed into a pained look and I deduced that he was thinking about me ditching him to talk to Donner tonight.  I knew he could read the guilt all over my face.

After our silent exchange he apparently reached some conclusion.  He shook his head slightly as if to clear it.  "Let's pack you in ice again and see if that doesn't help with your ribs."

My ribs actually hadn't been bothering me unduly since the Dihydrocodeine had kicked in an hour earlier.  Before I had a chance to tell him that, though, he was out of the door with an, "I'll get it."  He was gone for a lot longer than it would have taken to fetch ice and I suspected he was up to something nefarious.

When he returned he bundled me into my cot and set to packing ice around me, dodging all of my questions neatly.  With a quick, "I'll be back," he disappeared again for hours.  Yep, something was up.

The day dragged on interminably.  I was dreading 10 p.m.  Without BJ there to keep me distracted all I could do was think of the upcoming meeting with Donner.  And really, the first three interactions we'd had were not something I'd ever want to ever repeat ever again.  Ever.  Yes, we were meeting in a public place where he presumably wouldn't hurt me, but that didn't change the fact that I was having an encounter with my own personal boogeyman.

The longer I lay there thinking about it the more anxious I got.  And the knowledge that my security blanket was no longer in my footlocker didn't help.  I might not have even needed the sedative if it had been there but its absence made things even worse.  A couple of idle hours in and I was well and truly panicked.  My tremors were shaking the cot, my heart was trying to make a sixty second mile, and most importantly (in my opinion), it was a struggle to draw breath.

Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.  I _had_ to get relief.  Consequences be damned, I had to _breathe_.  I needed that Phenobarbital.

I thought briefly of finding BJ – I would have bet money that he had switched shifts with someone and was on duty in Post-Op – and asking him for a dose.  But I just couldn't stomach asking my friend to shoot me up with a sedative because I was nervous.  Plus, I'd just told him the night before that I didn't need it.  He'd think I had lied about how often I used it.

No, I'd just grab a new bottle from the pharmacy.  I could return it before the next time the room was inventoried.  Nobody would ever miss it.  After all, no one had missed the last bottle.  I just had to hide it in a different place this time.

With a groan I pushed myself up with trembling arms in a series of motions that was becoming routine.  Except for the trembling part.  Bags of cold water tumbled off of me as I sat up shakily.  I snagged my bathrobe and gingerly wrapped it around myself.  Keeping my head down in hopes that no one would read the panic on my face, I slunk to the pharmacy.  I was breathing a sigh of relief as I hit the door, but the relief was short-lived.

"Oh, hi sergeant," I said with a small wave to Glassberg, the pharmacy tech.  "Sorry to bother you, I came to the wrong place.  Have a wonderful day."  I was back out of the door before the startled sergeant even had a chance to respond.

_Shit_.  _Shit shit shit_.  I'd have to go to the supply hut.  Which was pretty much the last place I wanted to be at a time when my anxiety was already through the roof.

No.  No, I should just swallow my pride and ask BJ for an injection.  I nodded definitively and my feet carried me the short distance to Post-Op before my ego could talk me out of it.  When I got there, however, BJ was quite occupied.

The usual tranquility of Post-Op was broken by a distraught patient.  I wasn't very clear on the whys and wherefores because the man didn't seem to be shouting anything coherent.  Hearing him yell amped my own anxiety up even further.  BJ was trying to wrestle him into submission long enough for Able to sedate him, but the patient continued to evade him.

I thought of offering to let the nurse stick _my_ butt with that shot but I rather doubted that she'd take me up on it.  But fuck if I didn't need it right then.  I fisted handfuls of my robe in white-knuckled grips and tried to wait.  I paced rapidly by the desk at one end of the room, trying to block out the patient's frantic avoidance maneuvers and his nerve-racking shouts.

After an eternity that was probably at most 30 seconds I heard BJ call, "Be right there Hawk."

I nodded to the floor.  _Not much longer_.  I repeated that phrase in my head for another minute before the patient's cries finally drove me from the room.  I just couldn't stand it a moment longer.  I made my escape in what was nearly a headlong rush for the door, jumpily elbowing past two corpsmen as they entered Post-Op to help subdue the patient.

**_This_** _is why I need my own stash_ , I thought angrily, unconsciously making my way to the supply hut.  _I'd be feeling better by now if he hadn't taken that bottle_.

I didn't really pay any heed to my surroundings until I had pulled open the door to the little building and was faced with the scene of the original crime.  I hadn't gone near the place since the first attack nine days earlier.

Well.  I'd made it that far and had to brave the memories for relief.  With an intimidated gulp I stepped inside on legs that wobbled like Jell-O.  _Just focus on the_ _Phenobarbital_ , I coached myself.  I took a few steps in the right direction before my feet just refused to move.  I stood rooted to the floor, staring at the place where he'd violated me.  I could _smell_ him somehow.  I guessed it was a memory but it seemed so _real_.  That musky scent combined with the aroma of sweat and sex.  Was I ever going to be able to smell sex again without thinking of him?

My trembling got worse and my chest felt so tight that I couldn't fill my lungs up to anything close to an adequate degree.  My short, shallow breaths got faster and faster, seemingly out of my control.  Soon my head was spinning and I was seeing black spots.  _Hyperventilation_ , the helpful voice in my head supplied _._   _Anxiety attack_.  Unfortunately having a diagnosis didn't make the experience feel any less real.

As the black spots in my vision grew larger and my limbs began to tingle I realized that it might be prudent to have a seat.  I barely made it to the cot before my legs gave way and I landed on my butt with a painful jolt.  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and buried my face in my hands, struggling to take slow, even breaths, as deeply as I could manage.  I hoped like hell that no one would come in and find me in that state.

An eternity later the black spots and dizziness abated.  I tentatively raised my head, waited for the lightheadedness to pass, and then pushed myself upright.  Once the wooziness had once again faded and I was steady on my feet I made a beeline to the Phenobarbital.  I grabbed a handful of syringes on the way by and dumped all but one into a pocket.  When I reached the sedative I seized a bottle like a starving man – or anyone at the 4077 – would seize a fresh fruit.  I wasted no time injecting 5mL into my thigh through my pants.  With a shallow sigh I dropped the bottle and used syringe into an empty pocket and retreated back to the Swamp.  I felt something closer to human by the time I arrived.

After much internal debate I decided to wrap the bottle and syringes in a pair of boxers and stick them in my Army-issue suitcase.  It would be a pain to dig it out in a hurry, but I doubted BJ would bother snooping anywhere beyond my footlocker.

With my stash... well, stashed, I dumped the bags of water onto the floor and curled up loosely on my cot.  In attempt to avoid a replay of how I'd worked myself into a panic in the first place, I tried to think of something pleasant.  The first thing that came to mind was home, but when I thought of fishing in the stream behind my house I remembered retreating there the second time Donner had taken me.  With alarm I found that the same was true of my memories of the ocean.  Donner had corrupted them when I'd used them to protect myself.

In some sense I felt like this was a greater violation than anything he'd done to me physically.  He'd defiled _home_.  How long would it take me to be able to hear that stream bubbling or to smell the salt air by the surf without thinking of _him_?  I knew that it couldn't be permanent – I wouldn't let myself even consider that a possibility – but how much of my life would I have to waste reassigning these associations?  Similar to how Trapper's bunk became BJ's, only a lot more painful.

"Are you crying?"

I jerked in surprise and twisted hastily to face Frank.  I hadn't even heard him come in.  He'd just scared the hell out of me.  I clutched at my heart with one hand and self-consciously wiped at my face with the other.  Odd.  It _was_ wet.

"No," I denied on general principle.  _My eyes have sprung a leak.  Call a plumber._

"Oh, come on.  You can tell me.  _Hawk_."  Apparently he was still trying to be my buddy.  Or get more gossip material, one.

I narrowed my eyes at his forwardness.  "I wasn't crying.  I'm fine," I told him defiantly.

"Your face is wet.  And your eyes – uh, eye – is red," he pointed out stubbornly.  "You know, the one that isn't, well, black."

"Frank, I really don't want to talk.  I'd actually like to be alone right now."  _Please just go away_ , I pleaded silently.

His pleasant(-ish) demeanor disappeared.  "Well you can just stuff it," he said crossly, taking a seat in his chair.  "See if I try to help next time."

I sighed shallowly and turned away, closing my eyes and ignoring a random wave of dizziness that washed over me.  Perhaps Frank wouldn't make much noise and I could pretend that I was alone.

I had almost nodded off before I even noticed how strangely drowsy I was feeling.  Now that the anxiety had passed and I could think more clearly I was able to put two and two together and reach the realization that both the dizziness I was experiencing and the drowsiness that had overtaken me could be a result of the interaction between the Phenobarbital and the Dihydrocodeine.

_Oops_.

Well, water under the bridge and all that.  I decided to take advantage of the drowsiness and sleep through what promised to be an anxiety-filled day.  That was even better than playing pretend in attempt to avoid the company of an undesired bunkmate.

So I slept.

 

* * *

 

I woke up hours later to BJ's hand on my shoulder.

"Hawk.  It's dinner time," he told me.

I sat up and rubbed my face.  My brain caught up and I fixed BJ with a piercing glare.  "Fancy seeing you here.  _Now_."

He smiled at me innocently.  "I traded shifts with Frank.  I just so happen to be free tonight."

I scowled at him.  I could think of no other way to keep him out of the Officer's Club while I was meeting Donner.  I'd have to set the restrictions at a reasonable level or he'd ignore them completely.

"You can sit across the club from me," I offered fairly.

He easily followed the shift in conversation.  "Across the club?" he laughed humorlessly.  "Sure, then if anything happens I can't reach you before he gets in at least two hits.  If he's really slow."

"We're doing this in public so that doesn't happen," I reasoned.

"Because no one has ever been punched in the O-Club before," he scoffed sarcastically.

"He's not going to beat up an officer in a crowded room," I pointed out.  "The kid's smart," I added grudgingly.

BJ's mind seized that line of thought and ran with it.  "He looks so...."

"Young?" I supplied helpfully.

"Yeah."  He sounded bewildered.  "He looks like a kid.  An overgrown kid."

"That's what I thought too," I admitted.  It felt good to finally have someone I could share this with.  As long as it didn't all blow up in my face.  "I think that makes it even worse," I said quietly.  "That he's so young, you know?"

"Yeah," BJ replied in a sympathetic tone.  "I can see why that would make it harder."

His understanding heartened me.  It was a relief to finally have my feelings heard and validated.  "He's..." my voice broke.  "He's _sick_ , though."

"I know," BJ said soothingly.  He reached a gentle hand over and rested it lightly on the back of my neck.  Rather than being shaken, I took comfort in the contact.

"Trust me on this," I said eventually.  "I'll be safe in public with him."

"What's the harm if I sit one table over?"

"Don't you think that will look a _little_ suspicious?  I don't want him to realize that you know who he is.  If he does, if he gives me up, then all of this would have been for nothing.  I _have_ to think it meant _some_ thing, Beej.  I have to."

BJ frowned, biting his lower lip.  Finally he nodded.  "Alright.  I'll be across the room.  Or at the bar, one of the two.  Somewhere I can keep an eye on you discretely."

I smiled my gratitude.  "Thanks."

"Thank me by getting out of this unharmed."

"It's at the top of my to-do list," I assured him.

"Speaking of," he said in what seemed to me to be a non sequitur, "what did you come to Post-Op for earlier?  I kept expecting you to show back up."

"Oh."  Hmm.  "It was nothing," I lied.  "I handled it."

"It looked like something was really bothering you," he pressed.

"I took care of it."

"Okay..." he said doubtfully.

Which reminded me:  I was happy to note that the dizziness had passed.  That nap had done me a world of good.

With BJ's company my anxiety didn't reach unmanageable proportions again.  I didn't eat much dinner but I kept the shakiness to a minimum and no one seemed to notice how my fork trembled as I pushed the food around my plate.  By the time I walked into the O-Club, though, I felt the familiar tightness in my chest, felt the blood pulsing through my jugular throb with each beat of my heart, and was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded.

I got there around 9:30 to ensure that I got the back table.  It was farthest from any of the other tables and hopefully safe to talk at without being overheard.  Privacy wasn't assured there but I thought it would probably be safer than the mess tent; the mess tent could be empty (except for BJ, and wouldn't that look suspicious?) while the Officers' Club always had a bartender.  Or was supposed to always have a bartender.  Thankfully that night no one was slacking off, and there were quite a few patrons in the club as well.  Two couples were dancing to the music on the jukebox, providing some cover noise along with the mild hum of conversation.

I ordered a dust-dry martini and nursed it for a while.  By 10:00 the anxiety had returned full-force and I ordered my second martini while wishing for my Phenobarbital stash.  By 10:10 I was a basket case.  I kept sending increasingly terrified glances to BJ, who was sitting at the short end of the bar obliquely facing me.  I guessed that reassurance was more difficult to deliver silently from across a room because he was unable to calm me.

Donner finally glided in around 10:15.  I wondered if he'd done it to make me sweat.  If so, it had worked like a charm.  He gracefully claimed the chair beside me and leaned back, stretching his arm across the back of my chair.  I jumped a mile and quickly switched to the chair across from his.  He observed this with a gloating smile.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked as I settled into my new chair.

_No_.  "Something like that," I replied with fragile bravado, throwing his words from nine days previous back at him.  He spread his large hands in an obvious question.  "I'm telling you now," I said, as fiercely as I could manage, "that you will never touch me again."  My voice wavered embarrassingly.

The teen laughed loudly.  "And why is that?"

"I'll press charges."  I stated flatly.

"But what about your little secret?" he taunted fearlessly, reminding me once again of a schoolyard bully.

"It's not worth it," I said coolly with my best poker face in place.  I had to sell this.

His only reply was a knowing smirk and it started a fire somewhere in my gut.  As I stared at him through narrowed eyes I felt the flames spread to my chest and continue upward and outward.  It filled me up as I reflected on every moment I'd spent being abused by the piece of trash sitting in front of me, and every second of my life that I'd squandered dealing with the consequences of his actions.  And when it finished spreading I was absolutely livid.  His threat, his cocky expression, even the way he draped himself arrogantly over that chair – they all pissed me the hell off.

"I'm done being your victim," I informed him scathingly.  "I have three doctors – one captain, one major, and one _colonel_ , our C.O. – who can testify as to my injuries.  If you blow the whistle on me, you're the one who will be _fucked_ ," I spat.  "Between us, who do you think will spend years of his life splitting rocks in Leavenworth?"

Throughout my speech, Donner's face had morphed slowly from an expression of smug confidence into a stony façade.  When I named the prison he blanched, his youthful features turning bone white.  Maybe he thought I'd never discover this logic (to be fair I hadn't, myself), and/or that I'd never grow a pair (and honestly, I would be in trouble if he called my bluff about pressing charges).  I can't imagine that he wouldn't ever have thought through all of the ramifications of his actions, though.  From the beginning his behavior had smacked of premeditation, from when he ignored the hanger on the door of the supply hut, camera in hand, to when he snagged me leaving my shift in Post-Op, to when he caught me alone in the shower while the rest of the camp was otherwise occupied.

He mulled things over for a while as his eyes mapped my face, then stood, apparently deciding to cut his losses and get out while the getting was good.  "Well, I have to say it's been a pleasure," he said with a leer.

"I'm not done," I snapped.  He warily sank back into his chair, sitting in a less relaxed pose this time.  "I want that film, and any pictures you may have had developed."  I'd have to hope he wouldn't hold anything back.

"Or you'll press charges against me and risk getting a dishonorable discharge."  I think his tone was meant to be mocking but I heard uncertainty in his voice.

"That's right," I bluffed.

"Fine," he growled after a moment's hesitation.

"Go get it now," I ordered sharply.

He stood abruptly and stalked out.  With the threat momentarily absent, I checked in with my body and was displeased at the state I found it in.  My heart pounded in my chest, it was once again a struggle to take a breath, and the dizziness had returned with a vengeance.  I could only hope that I wouldn't have to stand up.  Or run.

I swallowed and risked a glance at BJ.  He looked to be on his way over but I shook my head at him and motioned for him to stay where he was.  He frowned but complied.

Donner swept back in shortly after.  He slapped two pictures and a roll of film onto the table.  I grabbed them, verified that it was the right picture, and stuffed both in my pocket.  I'd have to check the film out later.

"There.  Are you satisfied?" he spat.

"Almost," I said sweetly, this time successfully managing to hide the tremor in my voice.  My confidence was budding.  "Have a seat."  I gestured to the chair he'd just vacated.  He dropped into the chair with force.  I guessed he was feeling the need for some sort of physical outlet for his anger.  "You're going to request a transfer," I informed him bluntly.  "To the front line."

"To the front line?!  Are you trying to get me killed?!"  He might as well have shouted it through the P.A. system.

I glanced around furtively and noticed a few people besides BJ who were suddenly taking note of our conversation.  "Shut _up_ , unless you're trying to announce it to the whole club!" I hissed, leaning forward in my seat.  " _Yes_ , to the front line.  Up there you won't have as much of a chance to prey on people.  And if you _were_ killed I can't say I'd be too upset, honestly."  How come it actually pained me to say that, even to this monster?

"There's no way I'm doing that.  You're off your rocker."

"So, Leavenworth it is, then."  I gave a decisive nod.  "I bet that spending all day doing back-breaking work in the hot sun will do wonders for your muscle tone.  Oh, and you'll get a great tan.  Possibly a little heavy on your back as opposed to your front, but I'm sure your fellow inmates won't judge that too harshly.  Certainly there will be no women around to notice."

He paused, staring at me with impotent rage.  I just knew that he wanted to wrap his hand around my throat right then and squeeze until I was no longer a problem.  I mentally patted myself on the back for choosing that setting and tried not to flinch away.

"Fuck!" he practically yelled.  "Fucking fine!"  He dropped his voice and looked at me with a raw, haunted expression.  It was strange to see something actually scare my own nightmare-inspiring demon.  "What am I supposed to tell Potter about why I'm requesting a transfer?"

"I don't know.  Tell him you want in on the action or something.  Be creative.  You're good at scheming, aren't you?"

He gave me a look of pure disgust.  "Are we done here?"

"I am if you are," I said with mock cheer and a fake smile, giving him my wiggly-fingered wave.

He got halfway out of the chair before changing his mind and crashing back into his seat.  He looked around furtively, then abruptly leaned in closer to me.  I flinched at his sudden approach but managed to halt it before it progressed too far beyond a twitch.

"What's to stop me from getting rid of you and spending the rest of the war in the comfort of the 4077?" he inquired coolly, calculation obvious in his tone.  If it was a bluff it was delivered masterfully.

"I'm really glad you asked that" – _instead of killing me_ , I finished silently.  "Because there are two people," I fudged, "who know who you are and what you've done.  If I mysteriously die or disappear they'll turn you in in a heartbeat."  I was afraid if I said that only one other person knew that he'd decide to risk it and maybe take care of the would-be-witness too.

"You're lying," he growled.

"One of them is sitting right over there at the bar."  I waved to BJ.  A surprised BJ waved back.  "Wave to Captain Hunnicutt," I instructed dryly.  "Now, he wants me to press charges against you, but he's willing to keep quiet as long as this plan of mine works.  This plan that has you transferring to the front."

Donner scowled and stared at the table.  After a long pause in which he apparently couldn't find another way out of the situation he looked at me with wrath in his eyes and hastily stood.  "I'll put in my request in the morning."

"No, you'll put it in now," I corrected assertively.  "Radar's probably in his office at this hour, but he could be out playing with his animals, or running errands, or – who knows.  You're an industrious fellow, I'm sure you'll find him eventually."  I waved a hand expansively.  "You'd best do it tonight though.  Oh, and tell him to rush it."

With a scowl Donner made a break for it before I could add anything more.  As soon as he was out of the door I slumped back in my chair, exhausted.

BJ rushed over and had a seat beside me.  "So did he agree?"

"Yeah, he's going to get the transfer started tonight."  I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief, ignoring my ribs' protests.

"Good."

"I'm having him transfer to the front."  BJ's eyebrows shot skyward but he didn't say anything.  "I figure there he'll have less chance to prey on people."  I looked to him for validation.  "Does that make me a horrible person?"

"No, it doesn't," he assured me.  "I think that was the most conscientious thing that you could do without pressing charges."

"If he gets killed up there it's my fault."

"If he gets killed up there it's because we're in the middle of a war," he reasoned firmly.  "He could get killed here too, you know."

"Yeah, but it's far more likely up there."

"It's his own behavior that's getting him sent there.  If he wasn't a violent rapist then he'd be fine here."  I flinched at the R-word.  BJ graciously pretended not to notice.  "And really, besides prison there's nowhere for him to go that's safer for the general public."

I wasn't so sure but I gave him a thankful smile just the same.  "It's a good thing you were here," I admitted.

"Oh yeah?  I was wondering what the waving was all about."

I snorted.  "He asked me what was keeping him from killing me and staying here."  BJ's eyes grew wide.  "So I told him there were a couple of people who knew about him and would turn him in if anything happened to me, and there was one of them now," I finished with a crooked grin and a nod in BJ's direction.

My friend looked more unnerved than amused.  "Ah, glad I could be of service.  So you know that he won't try anything then?"

"Yeah.  Kid's afraid of spending the rest of his life in Leavenworth."

"I don't blame him."

"I think if we hadn't been in public he would have strangled me to death."  I touched my bruised neck tenderly as if he had indeed grabbed me.

"I was getting that impression from all the way over there."

I breathed another huge sigh of relief, unfazed by my ribs' retaliatory stab of pain.  "It's over.  In a few days I won't ever have to see him again."

"A few days?" BJ asked, surprised.

"I told him to rush it."

"Impressive."

"Huh?  Why impressive?" I wondered, puzzled.

"You thought of everything while sitting next to a guy who literally wanted to kill you."

"Well technically I thought of everything beforehand and then remembered it while sitting next to my would-be-murderer," I pointed out dryly.

"I'm trying to give you a compliment and you're nitpicking it."

"You love me," I laughed, echoing his words from the night before.

He chuckled, shaking his head.  "Sometimes I wonder why though."

"Do you love me enough to buy the next few rounds?"

"Two drinks an hour, remember?"

"Three.  This is a special occasion."

"Special occasions don't change drug interactions."

"Four."

"You're counting the wrong way."

"Five."

"I don't think you're quite grasping this concept...."

"Six."

"Alright, dammit, three."

Victorious, I grinned widely at him.  I felt my anxiety begin to slowly dissipate.

The Dihydrocodeine and alcohol combination once again made me quite drowsy and we called it a night after only a few celebratory drinks.  As soon as we entered the Swamp I removed the photographs of me and Reynolds from my pocket and stuffed them into the stove after one last long look at the sergeant's beautiful face.  It was too bad that I couldn't keep one to remember him by.  I watched it burn with a bittersweet satisfaction.  Then I turned on my lamp and held the film up to the light.  I couldn't make out most of the images and half of the roll was blank, but I spotted one square that looked like two people in the same poses as in my picture.  I nodded and tossed the film in too.  It had a distinctive smell as it burned.


	13. Chapter 13

The next day I was sitting outside of the Swamp, basking in the sun as I re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reread the previous month's Crabapple Cove Courier.  Business had been slow following the push and we weren't supposed to get any wounded for another couple of days, so we were all relaxing and trying to stave off boredom in practically any way possible.  Where I'd usually spend my time chasing nurses I found myself focusing solely on chaste pursuits.  Like drinking.  Though I unfortunately still had to limit my intake in consideration of the Dihydrocodeine I was taking.

BJ had been keeping me company that morning until he went inside to refill our carafe of gin.  I should have been suspicious when he took an inordinate amount of time to reappear – without the carafe – and immediately set off for the hospital, mumbling some vague excuse about a forgotten something-or-other.

It was a pleasant, sunny morning, though, and I'd ignorantly made it to page three of my paper by the time Radar came to fetch me.  I presumed that the colonel wanted an update on how my plan was going.  Boy, was I wrong.

I whisked into the inner office with a quip ready and stopped cold.  BJ was already planted in a chair and both he and Colonel Potter wore similarly bleak expressions.  The thing that tipped me off, though, was the bottle of Phenobarbital placed front and center on the desk.

_Damn_.  I took a step backward and was considering making a run for it when Potter's voice broke through my alarm.

"Sit," he ordered grimly.

I ducked my head and carefully had a seat beside BJ (the nosy fink).

"Now, Hawkeye," our C.O. began gravely, "I believe you've worked out why you're here?"

"I have all my points and get to go home?" I asked with mock hopefulness.

"Nice try.  Now, BJ _finally_ informed me" – he shot a pointed look at BJ, who had the decency to look abashed (though not for the correct reason) – "that you've been taking this drug secretly for over a week now.  Ever since you used it to _operate_ on that very memorable occasion.  He tells me that he confiscated the bottle you had in your footlocker and that a new bottle showed up in your possession _the_ _next day_.  Would you care to explain all of this?"

"Not particularly."  I directed a hurt look to BJ and he frowned, averting his eyes.

"Well tough tushie!" Potter barked.  "Talk!"

"I...."  I debated what to tell him.  "I've been having these anxiety attacks.  I've only been taking 20mg doses.  And I've only used it five times," I summed up succinctly.

"That's almost every day!"

" _Actually_ , it's been _ten_ days since – since that first time.  _Ten_.  So it's more like every _other_ day.  And three of those days were after, uh, an attack."

"You've stolen two bottles!"

"Have you ever had an anxiety attack?" I asked him challengingly, my hands fluttering as they added to my side of the discussion.  I didn't give him a chance to respond.  "Can you imagine walking around in a compound full of people – including the person who's causing the anxiety attacks in the first place! – to find someone you can try to talk into giving you a sedative for your 'nerves' while you can't breathe and you feel like you're going to have a heart attack and you're shaking so hard you're afraid that you'll collapse in the middle of the camp and it's all you can manage just to hold yourself together?!  It's humiliating and horrifying all at the same time!  But I tried to do that yesterday, to find BJ to give me the injection, and not only was he too busy, but there was someone _screaming_ while I tried to wait.  Let me tell you, that's not exactly calming.  So yeah, I took another bottle.  And the only thing I regret is trusting BJ not to go through my _belongings_ " – I sent a glare his way – "because now we get to have an inquisition where you think I'm an _addict_.  When _all I want is **relief**!_ "  I practically shouted that last bit and met the colonel's eyes insolently, chin held high.  "I just want it to _stop_ ," I added quietly with passion.

Potter was silent for a moment, staring at me.  Not staring me down; more like taking my measure.  "You really think it helps," he finally said.

"Of course it helps," I snapped.  "I wouldn't keep using it if it didn't help."  What kind of question was that?

"It didn't help you operate that night," he said obstinately.

"Actually, _sir_ , it did.  I was operating fine."  He opened his mouth and I held up a hand to forestall him.  "I wasn't screwing up and dropping instruments until _he_ started coming in and out of the O.R. while I was trying to perform surgery!"

He looked at me sharply.  "Why didn't you say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?  'Hey, here's the guy who's going to ruin me if I give him up'?"

"Hmph."  (Translation:  touché.)  Then:  "Do you plan on continuing to use this drug?"

"If I continue to have anxiety attacks I'm going to continue to use it," I told him defiantly.  "The occasional 20mg isn't the end of the world.  And it makes me _feel_ like it's not the end of the world.  So yeah, I will if I need to.  I shouldn't need to, though, because he's going to be out of here within a few days."

"A few days, huh?" he asked speculatively.

"Yep."

"Okay."  He paused for so long that I started to get hopeful that we were done.  But no such luck.  "First of all, I want you to talk to Sidney Freedman again about these anxiety attacks."

I scowled at him.  "I _know_ why I'm having them –" I began.

"Second," he said, speaking over me, "I want you to let me know when that man is out of my camp."

_Well, that one should be easy enough_.

"Third, I'm going to let you keep this bottle, but I want you to let BJ know when you use it.  I'm going to trust you with this."  Yeah, because he could check behind me most easily that way.  "Don't make me regret it."

I gave him a tight smile.  "I won't."  I wouldn't _make_ him do anything.  Whether he regretted something or not wasn't my decision.

"Alright."  He nodded at me.  "That'll be all."

I stood, grabbed the bottle of Phenobarbital, and shot BJ a glare of death as I turned toward the door.  He was sleeping on the couch tonight.

"Oh, and son?"  I stopped but didn't turn back toward him.  "BJ did the right thing.  Don't punish him for it."

"Don't count on it," I muttered under my breath as I walked out.

I heard BJ's chair scoot back and footsteps followed me out of the office.

"Hawk, wait," he said as we emerged into the bright sunlight.

I kept walking toward the Swamp.

"Hawk, listen," he said, pulling up beside me.

I ignored him until he grabbed my free arm.

" _Hawkeye_ –"

I pushed with the arm he'd grabbed, which had the nice effect of making him go away.  Albeit not far.  "I'm not talking to you," I informed him since he didn't seem to be taking the hint.

"I'm sorry, Hawk.  I really am.  I hated that I had to do it."

That was ludicrous.  "You didn't _have_ to do anything!"  I wrenched open the Swamp's door and childishly tried to pull it closed behind me, but he'd already gotten a hand on it.

"I was worried about you!" he said defensively, following me in.

No, it was because:  "You didn't trust me!"  I dragged my suitcase out and opened it with another glare in his direction.

"You were being so secretive about it!"

"Yeah!  Because I wanted to avoid _that_!"  I pointed an arm at Potter's office.  "That very conversation!  And now I get to be psychoanalyzed _again_!  So thanks _a lot_!"  I pulled out the boxers that had failed to conceal my stash to find them empty.  I felt around but still didn't find the missing syringes.  "And you owe me some syringes."  I slid the suitcase back under my bunk and opened my footlocker, placing the bottle of Phenobarbital in the trunk and locking it with another glare at BJ.

"Hawk, I –" he began.

"You know what?" I said loudly, interrupting him.  "I'll get them.  _You_ " –  I pointed at him, then at the ground – "stay here."

"Hawk, will you just –"

I walked out on him, marching toward the supply hut until my brain caught up with my feet and I came to a screeching halt.  I quickly redirected myself to Post-Op.  I could hear BJ a short distance behind me, coming up fast on my left.  The man would just not take a hint.  He caught up to me and grabbed my upper arm, forcefully pulling me to a stop.  Since my left eye still wasn't up to par I turned my head to see him more clearly – and froze.

It wasn't BJ holding my arm tightly.  It was Donner.

I cringed, then jerked, trying to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed my arm tighter.  He started pulling me toward the side of Post-Op.  I dug my heels in and was yanked off balance, tripping and narrowly avoiding face-planting in the dirt.

"Relax," the teenager growled.  "I just need to talk to you."

I warily let him lead me on unsteady legs, being sure to stay in sight of the rest of the camp.  When we were away from any potentially prying ears, Donner released my arm and turned to face me.

"I applied for a transfer," he said, obviously seething.  "Asked Radar to rush it, even.  But Potter turned it down.  He said I shouldn't rush into a decision like this hastily.  He thinks I'm 'not thinking it through.'"  He gave a cynical laugh.

I pursed my lips in frustration.  "I'll take care of it," I told him coldly, thankful that my voice wasn't trembling like the rest of me.  "Pack your bags."

I started backing away from him, unwilling to turn my back on the rage in his eyes.  Only when he turned and strode away was I comfortable doing the same.  I'd thought for sure he was going to slug me for that last comment, potential consequences be damned.

I headed back to the Swamp, any thought of my earlier errand wiped from my mind.  By the time I got there I was fighting for breath, my heart was thundering in my chest, and I was shaking so hard I had trouble grabbing the handle on the tent door.  When I finally staggered in I made a headlong rush for my cot.

"Hawk?!"  BJ sounded concerned.  "What's wrong?  You're white as a ghost."

I sat gingerly on my bed, facing the wall of the tent in attempt to give myself the illusion of privacy, and curled my knees up toward my chest, resting my filthy boots on the mattress and ignoring the discomfort in my rectum.  My arms carefully encircled my torso.  I closed my eyes, struggling to breathe slowly, evenly, and as deeply as I could stand.  _I've really got to stop doing this_.  Though at least this time I wasn't laying on my side, pressing my body to the cot as if hoping to sink through it into the ground.  That was progress.

"Hawk?  Talk to me."

I obliged him.  "Leave me alone," I said irritably, opening my eyes.  Though I was facing away from him I heard and felt him approach.  His presence at my back unnerved me.  Donner had been right behind me too – had actually touched me! – and I'd thought he was BJ!  He could have killed me before I even realized there was a threat!

"What happened?"  BJ lightly touched my shoulder and I cringed, screwing my eyes shut again.

"Leave me alone!" I repeated, a bit louder this time, just in case he'd spontaneously gone hard of hearing.

"You saw him, didn't you?" he pressed.

"Did you lose your grasp of the English language?" I demanded crossly.  "'Leave me alone' means 'I don't want to talk to you'!"

He hesitated.  "Do you want some Phenobarbital?"  He was apparently desperate to do _something_ to help.

"I _want_ you to leave me alone!  Get lost!  Buzz off!  Take a powder!  Get off my back!  Are any of these phrases ringing a bell?"  I reopened my eyes to search for something to throw in his direction.

"Okay, okay," he said, backing off as if divining my intent.  "I'll be right over here if you want to talk."

"Don't hold your breath," I spat.

The P.A. system crackled to life.  "Warning, all personnel:  lunch is served.  Be advised:  heavy casualties are expected."

"Do you want to go to lunch?" BJ asked almost timidly.

"No," I replied petulantly.  What would possess him to ask such stupid question?  He should have said, 'Hey, you're clearly on the verge of full-scale panic; why don't you come to a tent full of people who won't understand to eat food that typically inspires abject terror all on its own and, oh yeah, hope to avoid the guy who's been violently assaulting you?'  Instead of telling him that, though, I growled, "I _want_ to stop shaking.  I _want_ you out of my hair.  _Please_ go without me."

"I'll wait," he said placidly.  "I'm not all that hungry yet anyway."

In my mind I got off the cot (easily, as if my ribs weren't fractured), grabbed the glass carafe by the still, and beat him over the head with it until it was reduced to fragments.  Not hard enough to kill him, mind you; just enough to give him a bad headache.  In reality I heaved a sigh and adjusted my grip on my arms.

After about twenty minutes of torment my heart had calmed down, my breathing had become smooth and regular, and my tremors were much less noticeable.  I took stock of myself and surmised that I was ready to brave the outside world again.  Assuming Donner didn't reappear.  _On that note_ , I decided, _I could probably do without lunch today_.  With my luck he'd be in the mess tent and would scare the bejeebus out of me again.

I cautiously uncurled my body and climbed out of bed.  With another shallow sigh I headed for the door.

"Hawk?  Where're you going?"

I ignored BJ and strode purposefully to Colonel Potter's office.  Both he and Radar were conspicuously absent.  I nervously swung by the mess tent but only spotted Radar, who claimed ignorance as to the colonel's whereabouts in between enormous bites of so-called-food.  I checked in Post-Op, but he wasn't there or – to anyone's apparent knowledge – in surgery.  After an unproductive sweep of the entire hospital building, I visited Sophie's corral and found him picking manure out of the horse's hooves.

"Oh there you are!" I said to get his attention.

"Yep.  Here I am."  He didn't pause his ministrations.

"I wonder if I could have a word with you, Colonel."

"Isn't that what you're doing now?"  He put that hoof down and moved to another.

"Uh.  I was hoping for something more along the lines of face-to-face," I said, unwillingly eyeing his backside.  I made my way around the outside of the small corral so that I was facing his side.

"Well, you'll have to wait a little longer then."

That was irritating.  I'd finally hunted the man down and he wouldn't stop cleaning a horse's feet long enough for me to have a short conversation.

"It's about my return to active duty," I told him.  Maybe that would be important enough for him to pay attention for a moment.

"Did you get everything straight?"  He moved on to another hoof.  Good grief, had I managed to catch him _right_ after he started?

I really wanted to snipe, 'It would be straight if you would let the kid transfer out!' but knew that that probably wouldn't go over very well.  Instead, I took a deep(ish) breath and said, "Private Donner applied for a transfer.  Let him."

He dropped Sophie's hoof and faced me.  "You're telling me that boy who wants to transfer to the front lines – that's your doing?"

With effort I kept my head and eyes up when they tried to seek the ground.  "Yes."

He was silent for a while.  It looked like he was fuming.  I wasn't sure if it was _for_ me or _because_ of me.  A few times I had to stop myself from bolting.  Finally, he nodded to me.  "Okay.  I'll do it."

I felt an intense rush of gratitude.  "Thanks."  I half-smiled at him.

"You're still not going on active duty until those ribs are healed," he called when I started to walk away.

I rolled my eyes.  "You know where to find me when you need me," I yelled back.

 

* * *

 

By the time I returned to the Swamp lunch had ended and it looked like BJ hadn't moved an inch since I'd left him.  Part of me felt bad that he'd missed a meal to wait on me.  The rest of me was angry at that sympathetic part for feeling sorry for the fink.

"Will you listen to me now when I say I'm sorry?" he asked irritably.

I deigned to answer him this time.  "'Sorry' doesn't change the fact that you turned me in to Colonel Potter for something that I _told_ you was not a problem," I said stonily.

"Hawk, I was worried about you!  I did what I thought was in your best interests.  And I can honestly say that I'm very glad to have been wrong."

"And _I_ can honestly say that you should've just trusted me!"

"If I had been secretly keeping a drug hidden in my bunk, lying about its use, and stealing more of it as soon as it was confiscated, wouldn't you have been concerned?"

Logically, I knew he had a point.  But I didn't want to be logical.  I wanted to be angry.  "I didn't lie about using it!" I protested heatedly.  _Just forget the other two things.  Those aren't pertinent_.

"What do you call the conversation we had the day you stole the second bottle?" he challenged.  "Not to mention the very first time you used it!"

Oh.  Well, those instances were more misleading than lying, really.  Kind of.  A little.  Ah, damn, I hated when he was right.  "Fine.  Maybe I lied a tiny bit.  Because look at what happened when you found out!  Not only did I get interrogated for nothing, but now Sidney's coming to badger me _again_."

BJ tried to take the energy of the conversation down a notch.  "Is talking to Sidney really that bad?  It could help, you know."

I refused to check my manic momentum.  "I don't want to talk about it again!  I want to forget about it and move on!"

"Hawk, you're doping yourself every other day to deal with these anxiety attacks, and when you're not doing that your drinking is out of control!  Trying to forget it is clearly not working!"

Well.  He might have a point there.  If I let myself stop and think about it I probably should have been concerned about my alcohol usage over the past ten days.  If not for the entire war.  Well, no time like the present to ignore pesky little details like alcohol abuse.

"I just need more time," I said defensively.  "D- Donner will be gone soon and I'll be able to make more progress."  It felt so strange to be able to say his name out loud.

"Are you going to wait that long to get a shower?" BJ asked critically.

He brought up another good point.  I hadn't gone near the shower in the three days since the last attack and I honestly wasn't sure I'd be able to walk into that tent ever again.  In the meantime, Sophie's corral was starting to smell better than me.

"I've been considering switching to sponge baths," I told him, "given to me by a different beautiful woman each day."  I cocked my head at him for effect and waggled my eyebrows.  "Think the nurses will go for that?"

BJ wasn't drawn into my repartee.  "Why don't we go get a shower?" he suggested gently.  "You know the longer you put it off the more daunting it'll be."

_How could it be more daunting than it is now?_   But he had yet another point (damn him):  it wasn't getting any easier.  Still, I wasn't yet ready to forgive the guy, and I really didn't want to have to depend on him for anything until I was a little less ticked off.

BJ read the conflict on my face.  "Come on.  I promise that once we get it out of the way you'll feel much better."

"I'm still mad at you," I grumbled.

"Let's take a time out.  You can go back to being mad at me after the shower."

I snorted but pondered his proposal.  After a minute of mulling it over I decided to take him up on his offer.  It would be nice to feel clean, for one, and also to not have it looming over my head.  It also helped that my outrage had faded to indignation.

"Alright."  I nodded, taking a breath in preparation of... something.  Anxiety seized me as soon as I mentally committed myself to the task.  Revisiting the scene of the crime was certain to be unpleasant (read: terrifying and disastrous).  I mean, look at how the trip to the supply hut had gone.  I stood stiffly by my cot, studying the floor with widening eyes and frozen with indecision about what to do next.

"Here," BJ said, approaching.  "I'll unwrap you."

"Am I a Christmas present now?" I asked wryly, gingerly holding out my arms as far behind me as I could stand so that he could slip my robe off and mentally patting myself on the back for skipping the t-shirt that morning.  I jerked uncontrollably when he brushed my shoulder with one hand.

"If you're thinking of shipping yourself home for the holidays in a gift-wrapped box make sure you don't forget the air holes," he advised, starting in on the tape encircling my chest.

I ignored the tremors brought on by his touch and laughed once before stopping in deference to the shooting pain in my torso.  "Trapper and I locked Frank in a crate like that once.  One with air holes, I mean," I clarified.

"I'm sorry I missed that."  BJ was behind me but I could hear the smile in his voice.  "How'd he take it?"

I held my arm up a bit higher as he came around my side.  "Not quite lying down."  I smirked.  "The box wasn't big enough for that."

That garnered a brief chuckle before BJ fell silent, unwrapping my ribs and removing the bandage and dressing from my back.  In the meantime I tried to keep myself distracted by playing a mental greatest hits list of the pranks I'd pulled on Frank.  It helped keep the mounting anxiety somewhat at bay, though the closer I progressed toward the shower the harder it became to ignore.

I felt a soft touch on my back and, following an irrepressible twitch, remained still as BJ inspected my abrasions.  "Your back's healing nicely," he assured me.

I didn't reply; my mouth and throat were parched and all I could think of was the upcoming doom.  Er, shower, the upcoming shower.  I shakily stripped my pants off and pulled my bathrobe back over my shoulders.  Butterflies danced gleefully in my stomach and sent scouting parties to my chest to evaluate future expansion prospects.  It turned out that the conditions were quite favorable.  For the butterflies, not for me.

On the walk from our tent to the shower I was visibly trembling.  BJ kept sending me sidelong looks of concern.  When we reached the door I stopped cold, my feet rooted to the spot.  My friend patiently held it open for me, showcasing the empty tent.  I warred with my fear for a few moments before I managed to step inside.  I'm sure any uninformed observers – that is to say, everyone but BJ – must have thought that I'd finally cracked.  They wouldn't have been all that far off the mark.

Once I'd made it in all I could do was stare at the floor where _it_ had happened.  I saw brown stains on the wood.  My bloodstains.  I couldn't take my eyes off them.

BJ followed my gaze.  "Is that... what I think it is?"

"Yeah," I said quietly.

"We could have it cleaned up and come back once that's done," he suggested, looking a bit disturbed himself.

(Sure, we saw blood all the time, but it was different when it was _my_ blood marking the site of a brutal assault.  I doubted he would have ever spotted it if I hadn't inadvertently pointed it out to him.  In fact, he had probably showered since the last attack and had obviously failed to take note of it before.  As a general rule – for the sake of our sanities – it was better not to notice the myriad of stains that showed up on the various surfaces of the camp that we came into contact with daily.)

I was sorely tempted by his offer but was afraid that if I left I'd never bring myself to come back.  "No.  I've got to do this now," I told him grimly.

I finally managed to step over the stains to the hangers.  I shakily divested myself of my clothes and turned to stare down the closest stall door.  The stall I'd been attacked in.  I swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat.

_This is not a big deal_ , I told myself firmly.  _It's just a shower.  That's all.  You do this all the time._

Circling around to the back of the tent, I stepped into the shower stall that I hadn't been assaulted in, farthest from the door.  Once I'd turned to face the faucet I was able to see BJ clearly again out of my right eye.  He'd undressed and was eyeing my bruised chest with something akin to ire.

I gathered my courage and pulled the chain to turn the water on.  The instant I closed my eyes to put my head under the spray I was transported back to the moment Donner's hand had wrapped around my neck.  I released the chain and flinched, putting a protective hand around my throat and staggering back into the wooden partition with a grunt of pain.

"Hawk, it's okay."  BJ's calming voice filtered through the roaring in my ears.  "You're fine.  Nothing's going to hurt you."

_I_ knew that, but apparently my sympathetic nervous system hadn't gotten the memo.  Well, it wasn't the one calling the shots (at the moment).  I was in control (for the time being).  I breathed as deeply as I dared, defiantly tamped down my nerves, pulled the damned chain again, and ducked my head under the spray, trying to think about anything but the last time I'd done this.  The water stung my abrasions, but at least I was able to keep the anxiety down to a manageable level.  The butterflies were going to town in my chest and stomach, I was still trembling, my mouth was as dry as I wished my martinis could be, and my throat felt tight, but I wasn't running full tilt out of the tent butt naked.  It was going down as a win.

I heard the sound of the other stall's door swinging open and my friend turned on his faucet.  I frantically blinked water out of my right eye until I could confirm that it was BJ.  Common sense told me that it couldn't be anyone else but paranoia insisted that I check anyways.

He noticed.  "It's okay," he repeated soothingly.  "It's just me."

"Yeah yeah.  Everything's fine," I said, trying to reassure both of us.  "Just, uh, don't make any noises.  But talk to me.  Talk to me."

Pity outweighed what could have been slight amusement in his expression.  "I'll see what I can do."

I soaped up my hair but waited to close my eyes until BJ started speaking again.

"Tell me about all the other pranks you've pulled on Frank," he suggested.

"I thought this was supposed to be _you_ talking," I objected mildly.  I put my head under the faucet and rinsed my hair.

"But I haven't spent as much time with Frank as you," he pointed out.  "There's got to be all sorts of wonderful things I haven't heard about."

"Well.  That's true," I admitted, mischief warring with smugness in my tone.

As I contemplated which pranks to brag on I grabbed a bar of soap and started working on the parts of my body that weren't too painful to reach.  I wasn't as desperate to wash every inch this time around so I skipped large areas.  It made for a much shorter shower.

"Okay.  There's all the little things.  Painting his bar of soap with clear nail polish so that it wouldn't lather no matter how long he stood there and scrubbed with it.  Putting salt on his toothbrush and cake frosting in his toothpaste.  Booby-trapping his toothpaste tube with baking soda and vinegar so that it exploded the next time he squeezed it.  During one of his bomb-phobic periods, of course."  BJ grinned and nodded appreciatively.  "I've been putting baby oil in his shampoo.  Just a little bit in every other bottle for the past year.  He can't figure out why his hair is greasy half the time, no matter how often he washes it."  That earned a snicker.  "At some point in time I've glued every zipper the man's ever possessed in Korea.  Pants, shaving kit, suitcase, sleeping bag.  You name it, I've glued it."  I shook my head with a smirk.  "Let's see….  Last winter I soaked his mattress down with water and set it outside to freeze.  Once it was a solid block of ice I put it back on his cot and made the bed up to look like normal.  Short-sheeting it, of course."  I chuckled darkly and my friend joined me.  "Ah, one night I sewed every piece of his underwear to the ceiling of the tent.  Flag-style, you know.  A visiting colonel was inspecting the camp the next morning, see, and I wanted to make an impression."

"And did you?" BJ wondered impishly.

"Oh yes."  I nodded emphatically.  "Oh yes."  Frank had practically turned purple.

BJ was grinning from ear to ear.  "That's great!  More!  Tell me more!" he ordered with the gleeful anticipation of a child about to open his presents on Christmas morning.

"Mmm, there was the time I rigged the walls of the latrine to fall while he was in it reading his paper."  I neglected to mention that it was in retaliation for all the little pranks he'd pulled on me.  I'd won that war by a landslide – in one brilliant stroke – and that was all that mattered.

"Tell me you took a picture!"

I laughed.  "And break a camera?"  I realized with great relief that BJ's tactic was actually helping to dispel my anxiety.

"Alright," BJ pouted playfully.  "What's another one?"

"I sprinkled powdered milk underneath his sheets last summer.  You know how he sweats at night."  I heard a murmured agreement.  "Well, it gets in your pores when that happens, and it stays there.  He reeked of soured milk for about a week.  I kind of regretted that one, as someone who had to live with him.  Margaret wouldn't let him into her tent for days."

BJ let out an evil cackle.  So much for garnering sympathy.

"Another time I slipped a few cc's of lidocaine into his coffee before one of his lectures to the enlisted men.  I have to say, that was the most entertaining lecture he's ever given."  I snorted, remembering Frank standing in front of a group of highly amused men trying to talk with a partially numbed mouth and tongue.  Sadly, the lecture had ended prematurely.

"Ha!  I bet."

"Hmm.  Oh!  Oh yes!  There was this supply foul-up a while back."  BJ rolled his eyes at the Army's ineptitude.  "I know, imagine that.  But this time we got 200 yards of _flypaper_.  So while Frank was on shift in Post-Op we flypapered every surface in his corner of the tent:  ceiling, floor, walls, cot, desk, chair, shelves, everything.  His sheets, his shower shoes, his army manual, his Bible."  A full-bodied laugh escaped me despite my ribs.  "Just the Sodom and Gomorrah part.  It's his favorite passage."  I heard BJ echo my amusement.  "Oh, he hated us."

"Us?"  I detected an odd quality in BJ's voice through his ear-to-ear grin and sent him a quizzical look.

"Yeah, me and Trapper," I explained, puzzled.

He noticed my confusion.  "Just wondering," he said with an innocent smile.

I gave a mental shrug and decided not to press.  If there was something bothering him he'd talk about it when he was ready.  Probably.  Maybe.  Eh, whatever.

"It was all my idea, of course," I bragged.  It had been Trapper's.

"Of course," BJ agreed patronizingly.  "What genius idea isn't?"

I grinned and focused on rinsing my body.  I was relieved to note that my anxiety had mostly faded.  My breathing and heart rate were back to normal, the butterflies had packed their bags and fluttered away, my mouth was no longer an arid wasteland, and the tremors had largely subsided.

Still smirking, I exited the stall, circling around to the hangers.  My face fell when my gaze settled on the dried blood staining the floor.  Feeling thoroughly creeped out, I yanked my eyes away and busied myself with toweling dry and pulling on clothes.

"I'll have Radar get someone to clean that up," BJ assured me as he stepped over the stain on the way to his towel.

I mutely nodded my thanks.

The mood was slightly subdued when we left the showers, but I reflected that it was much more pleasant than the panic I'd felt going in.  We stopped by the Swamp for clothes (I once again wore my still-bloody bathrobe in lieu of a shirt because, face it, t-shirts and broken ribs are not a match made in Heaven), then hit the exam room to bandage my back and rewrap my ribs.  By the time we were done BJ was running late for his shift.  I realized as he hustled away that I'd forgotten to go back to being mad at him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sidney Freedman showed up late the next morning.  As much as I liked Sidney, I was once again not all that thrilled to see him.

"Good morning, Hawkeye!" he said brightly as he came in.

"Morning," I grumbled from my cot, where I was stretched out on my side rereading a letter from Reynolds that had arrived the previous afternoon.

"I love the enthusiasm," he said dryly, "but don't get yourself all worked up on my account."  He claimed the chair next to me and was obviously trying not to stare at my bruised and swollen face.

"I'll try to restrain myself," I assured him, folding the letter back up and holding it loosely.

"So, what's new?"  He spread his hands in front of him.

"Well, I'm about to get psychoanalyzed _again_.  Which I wouldn't mind so much if it didn't mean having to dredge up memories that I'm trying my damnedest to forget."

"Maybe you need to come to terms with those memories instead of trying to bury them," Sidney suggested.

"As fun and entertaining as that sounds – and really, it's right up there with that USO show with the busty tap-dancing twins – I think I'll pass."

"Then these anxiety attacks aren't going to stop," he told me bluntly.

I stuck my chin out stubbornly.  "They will when he leaves."

"Can you honestly tell me that he's the only thing that makes you anxious?"

"I'm getting used to the other places," I said defensively.

Sidney cocked his head.  "What happened the last time you went to a place that bothered you?"

One corner of my mouth curved up in a victorious half-smile.  "I took a shower."

He nodded approvingly.  "And how did that go?"

"Beautifully.  In fact, I'm planning on going into business selling tickets to all my future showers.  We've got to keep the nurses entertained, you know, or they'll leave us for another war."

Sidney studied my face for a moment, peering past my flippant façade.  After a pregnant pause he nodded again, apparently satisfied.  "And what about physical contact?"

"Can't get enough of it."

"Tell me about the last time you had a negative reaction to being touched."

"Breakfast.  My lips were molested by something masquerading as pancakes."

"Uh huh.  How about human touch?"

I hesitated, frowning, and decided to come clean.  "Yesterday.  BJ touched me right after D— after _he_ did."  Despite the fact that my C.O. now knew my attacker's identity, I was still oddly hesitant to call him by name in front of… well, anyone but BJ, who'd been there for _that_ meeting (in the form of my guardian angel, in fact).  I defensively hastened to add:  "I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that to have some sort of backlash."

"You're right," Sidney agreed mildly.  "It's not."

"Good.  So we're done here?" I asked with faked optimism.

"Not quite yet," he said, sounding vaguely amused.  "I wanted to talk about what happened to you."

I narrowed my eyes at him warily.  "What do you mean?"

"Your attacks," he replied simply.

"What about them?" I asked, my tone guarded.

"Tell me about them."

I'd really been hoping to avoid that.  Preferably for the rest of my life.  "You know, I'd love to, but my publisher warned me against ruining the release of my biography by giving away all of the details ahead of time.  I'm not even allowed to know the ending yet, myself."

Sidney wasn't put off.  "Why don't you want to talk about them?"

I thought that was pretty self-explanatory.  "Next are you going to ask me how they make me feel?" I asked mockingly.

I predictably didn't get a rise out of him.  "Are you volunteering an answer?"

"No!"  Talking over something I'd rather bury was pointless.  I wanted a shovel, not a pedestal.

"Why not?" he persisted doggedly.  "Why won't you talk about it?"

"Because... because it's degrading!  I'm not going to tell someone about something like that!"

"Why is it degrading?"

"How could it not be?!"  It was odd.  He'd never really struck me as stupid before.

"Would you feel that it was degrading if you'd been beaten but not raped?"

"I wasn't raped," I growled stubbornly.

"Alright," he said carefully.  (I got the distinct impression that he wouldn't be humoring me for long.)  "Would you feel degraded if you were only beaten, not blackmailed?"

I sighed.  "No, I guess not."

"What about blackmail?  Is being blackmailed degrading?"

"Depends on what they're getting out of you, I suppose."  _If sex, then yes._

"Say they're blackmailing you for money."

"No, I don't think that would be degrading."

"What about rape?  Forget the blackmail and beating.  Is being raped degrading?"

"I wasn't raped," I repeated obstinately.

"I'm just speaking in general.  Theoretically, if someone is raped do you think they would feel degraded?"

Since he was humoring me I decided to return the favor.  "I'm sure they would," I answered confidently.

"Why are you so sure?"

"Well, they're being demeaned," I reasoned.  "It would be humiliating."

"Even if it's not their fault?"

I shook my head.  "Fault has nothing to do with whether or not rape is degrading.  All that matters is that you're powerless and... and emasculated... and humiliated.  If you're at fault it makes it worse, yes, but it's the act itself that's demeaning."

"Do you feel emasculated?"

I looked down, toying with the folded letter in my lap.  "Yeah," I admitted quietly.

"Why do you feel emasculated?"

I was silent for a moment, thinking out my answer.  Sidney gave me time.

"I was subjugated by another man – by an overgrown kid! – and..." _he used me_... "and..." _he touched me..._ "and I couldn't do a damn thing about it," I finished softly.

"Well, you obviously did.  He's transferring out."

"I was so stupid."  I slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand.  "I didn't see it at all.  The _chaplain_ had to give me the advice on how to get out of my mess.  I couldn't even do _that_ myself," I said bitterly.

"A smart man knows when to turn to his friends for help."

Unfortunately that 'smart man' had lost that friend because he didn't keep his big mouth shut.  Yes, Father Mulcahy was still talking to me, but it seemed that I'd been downgraded from 'friend' to 'perverted and depraved sinner who should be ministered to.'  The loss was still fresh and painful.

"That's great, Sidney.  Very insightful.  Let's make a note of that so it can go down in the history books."

He took my jibe good-naturedly.  "I'll put it on my to-do list."

"Uh-huh."  We fell silent for a moment and I briefly debated wasting my breath trying to draw the session to an early end.  Knowing that it would ultimately be futile, I instead wound up just spending the time mentally collecting myself.

"Alright," Sidney said after he judged that the all-too-brief reprieve should come to a close.  "Let's return to the subject of emasculation."

I pursed my lips.  "Joy."

"Do you feel that being raped was emasculating?" he asked boldly.  I took that question to signify the end of his indulgence on the 'rape' matter.

"I wasn't raped," I objected impassively.

"You weren't?" he challenged critically, quirking one brow.

I kept my face and voice studiously blank.  "I wasn't."  I reopened my mouth with the intention of being snotty ('Do I need to draw you a picture here?') but made myself close it again with the silent reminder that Sidney was a friend.

"What do you call what happened to you then?"

I paused briefly in thought.  "I was ...attacked."  Yes, that was the best word for it.

"What was the nature of this attack?"

"It was..." I struggled for an answer.  "I....  He beat me up," I finally summed up lamely.

"And there was nothing sexual about these attacks?"

I studied my lap and felt shame flush my cheeks.  "I wasn't raped," I said by rote.  I exasperatedly considered making a recording for him so that I could save my breath.

"Hawkeye, he penetrated you against your will!"  (I cringed at that word – 'penetrated' – and had to fight not to close my eyes and put my hands over my ears like a small child.  That was one more word that I never cared to hear again.)  "How is that not rape?" he finished with compassion.

The malicious little voice inside my head elected to answer that one.  "Men don't get raped," I told him softly.  "And I... I didn't –" my voice broke "– I didn't fight the first times."  The admission was mortifying.  I just wanted to sink into the ground and never crawl back out.  "And I couldn't stop him the – the last time."  By the time I uttered the final word there was next to no volume behind my breath.  Sidney seemed to get it anyway.

"Men _do_ get raped, Hawk.  It may not be as common, and I suspect that a lot of men who are raped don't report their attack – as is the case here, in fact – but it certainly does happen."  He paused and pinned me with his gaze.  "You know that.  You're just clinging to any lie that will help you stay in denial, and society has provided an easily available one."  His expression softened.  "And just because you didn't fight back doesn't mean that it wasn't against your will.  Sex by coercion _is_ rape."  He paused, apparently awaiting a reaction from me.  He was disappointed, but soldiered on.  "It was _not_ your fault.  You are not to blame.  There is nothing to be ashamed of.  And you have no reason to feel emasculated.  You are _not_ what he did to you."

"No."

Sidney looked slightly puzzled.  "'No' what?"

"No.  Rape is something that happens to women who come into the emergency room back home," I explained stonily.  "Not me.  Not here."

"But it _did_ happen here, to you," he insisted.  "Denying it doesn't change what happened.  You have to face it.  I'm not saying that it's going to be easy, just that it's necessary if you want to move on with your life."

I closed my eyes and shook my head.  _I wasn't raped.  Because… because I wasn't_.

"If this happened to anyone else, what would you call it?" Sidney challenged.  "Would you belittle them by telling them that what they experienced wasn't rape?  Would you blame them for not fighting back, or for not successfully fending off their rapist, as if that implied consent?  Would you tell them that because they weren't a woman, what they went through didn't count?"

I paused, unable to refute his points.  "No, I guess not," I said quietly.

"Can you not give yourself that same consideration?" he asked gently.

Chewing my lower lip, I inhaled deeply and fixed the space above Sidney's head with a thousand-yard stare.  He gave me time to think it through.

Okay.  Well.  What if I did call it 'rape'?  Would that change anything, beyond my perception of the events that had transpired?  Would that change _me_?  Was I more tainted, more damaged, for redefining the experience with that four-letter word?  Was I less of a man?  _Well, yeah_.  Okay, but was I less of a man just because I called it 'rape' instead of 'attack'?  Changing the label didn't change what had happened.  He'd still... he'd still done it, regardless.  Denial couldn't change that.  I'd still... I'd still been raped, no matter what I called it.

I swallowed against the bitter taste on the back of my tongue.  Fine, then.  Fine, I was raped.  Whatever.  I closed my eyes and felt warm tears track down my cheeks, then clenched my jaw and dropped my face into my hands.

So, then, it was.  So it was rape.  I still couldn't fathom the idea of allowing that admittance past my lips.  I couldn't tell Sidney that.  It was too much.  I couldn't say it out loud.  Not now.  Maybe later, maybe someday, but not at that moment in time.

I heaved a sigh of… I don't know.  Defeat?  Relief?  Exhaustion?  I swiped at my eyes and cheeks before lifting my head.  Skipping past Sidney, my gaze desperately scoured the tent for a distraction.  Anything to escape further conversation.  I was far too emotionally drained to continue.  Diversionary tactics were obviously called for.

My gaze fell upon my trusty still.  "I'm thirsty," I said with sudden and very false cheer as I got up.  The change in my demeanor in the space of two seconds could have given Sidney whiplash.  "Are you thirsty?  Because I'm thirsty."  I stepped around him to the still and poured myself a 'martini.'

"Hawkeye."

"These are top-of-the-line martinis, let me tell you.  The trick is:  you mix five parts gin, and one part gin.  But for the last part you concentrate very hard on the taste of vermouth as you pour."

"Hawkeye."

"And I hate to break it to you, but we are fresh out of olives.  Please do try to contain your disappointment."

"Hawkeye!"

I blinked at him, startled.  I wasn't sure I'd ever heard Sidney raise his voice before, even to that negligible degree.  "What?"

"Can we get back to the matter at hand?"  It seemed that I was finally straining his patience.

I shook my head.  "No, we really can't.  I mean, you can, but I'm not coming along for the ride.  Have a nice trip!"  I waved at him insolently.

"Hawk, you're in denial!  If you can't come to terms with this you can't heal from it.  If you continue to resist your experience, your rape, you'll never be able to move on.  You'll always be fighting it.  You have to _own_ it.  Yes, it will be painful, but ultimately I believe that owning what happened to you will be more empowering than this exhausting cycle of disbelief and defiance."

Perhaps I was no longer in denial, but I didn't have the energy to explain that to him.  I just couldn't say that word out loud.  "No.  Sidney.  I'm done."

"You know, if we don't make more progress today I'll be coming back again until we do," he threatened.

"I _have_ made progress today," I told him quietly.  "Maybe next time I can tell you about it."

He studied my face, deliberating.  Finally he inclined his head.  "Okay.  I'm glad to hear it.  I'll stop pushing for now.  You know how to get in touch with me if you want to talk.  But I'll be checking in on you soon to see how you're handling things.  And," he added, "if the situation starts getting worse I'm not going to wait any longer."

I replied with a wry smile and a nod.  In light of his novel good sense and graciousness I decided to offer him an olive branch.  "I bet I could put together a poker game if you want to stay for the night."

"Yeah?  I get another shot at losing my money to you?" he said with a budding grin.  "I can't think of a better way to spend the night."

 

* * *

 

The next day I was returning to the Swamp after putting another letter to Reynolds in the post.  I happened upon a bored BJ tossing around an inflated plastic glove.

"I'll play you," I offered.

He stopped and grinned at me.  "You'll lose, and you'll probably break two more ribs in the process."

"Give me a handicap then.  Fractured ribs can be worth a few points, right?"

"Are those things healing on an installment plan or what?" he teased.

"Only for five more weeks," I assured him with a mischievous smile.

"It's going to be a looong five weeks, isn't it?"

"Patience is a virtue," I informed him in a tone reminiscent of Frank.  "Perhaps you should be more virtuous."

"Yep.  A long five weeks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming down to the end. My apologies for how short these last two chapters are; I originally had combined them, but I really feel like they're diverse enough to each deserve a chapter of their own.
> 
> I have to say that this is my favorite chapter of this story. I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts.


	15. Chapter 15

A month later BJ stuck his head into the Swamp where I was playing chess with myself.  (Try as I might, I could never win.)

"Hey, Hawk, I got a patient in Post-Op who's asking for you.  It's your friend, Sergeant Reynolds."  His tone was apologetic.

Heart shuddering to a stop in my chest cavity, I sat bolt upright, upsetting the chess table.  "How bad is he?!"

"Relax, Hawk, it's just a shoulder wound.  Bullet went clean through.  Just a bit of muscle damage."

I did relax a bit but still rushed out of the tent and made it to Post-Op in near record time.

"Hiya stranger," I said with a grin as I nonchalantly grabbed Reynolds' chart, pretending I hadn't run there in a panic.  I couldn't look at the man without smiling.

"Hawkeye!"  His voice was warm but lethargic.  His endearing southern dialect was augmented by the effects of the morphine.

I had a seat on the stool by his bed and gave his chart a quick once-over.  "I know the lice, fleas, dysentery, and World War Two dreck the cook calls food are quite enticing, but you didn't have to go get yourself wounded again to visit us."  I added in an undertone:  "This is not exactly what I had in mind when I thought that I'd like to see you again, Ross."  I softened my words with a sweet smile, covering his good hand with my own and squeezing gently.

"Well, it weren't exactly my idea, but since they brought me _here_ I can't say I mind overmuch," he drawled.  "The shoulder's not bad.  My corporal over there, Simon, he got tore slam up."

My hands glided over his shoulder, ostensibly to check his wound.  He was right; it wasn't bad.  I caressed his arm discretely before I sat back.

"I'm sure Simon will be fine," I reassured him, looking into his gorgeous eyes.  "We have good doctors here.  Actually the average would have been 'excellent' but Frank is dragging us down," I confided with a grin.

"I didn't see you in the operatin' room," Reynolds said, puzzled.  "I was gonna ask for you.  You're not still suspended, right?"

"Oh, no, I took care of that situation."  All I'd felt safe including in a letter was that I'd solved our mutual problem.  "The pictures and film are ashes and Donner's been transferred to the front line."

He looked surprised and sounded impressed.  "Damn.  When you do somethin' you don't do it halfway."

"If something's worth doing it's worth doing well," I said, a tad smugly.

"So then why aren't you playin' doctor?"  He gestured to my bathrobe.

I held my tongue as Nurse Able strolled slowly by, making eyes at Reynolds as she passed.  The beautiful sergeant gave her an obligatory smile and she beamed back at him.  As unthreatening as a woman was to our undefined relationship I still felt both possessive and proud that his attentions were mine.

He leaned closer to me after she got out of earshot and confessed, "All the boys in my outfit think I been moonin' over a nurse I met here last month."  He flashed a secretive grin.

I returned it with a shockingly shy smile (I couldn't recall the last time I'd done 'shy') as a warm, fuzzy feeling took root in my chest and blossomed.  We traded soft smiles for a moment before returning to our conversation.

"So why...?" he prompted.

"Donner's parting gift was a couple of broken ribs, so for now I'm only called in when they're feeling really short-handed," I explained succinctly.

" ** _He_** –"  My sergeant paused for a deep breath and summoned the willpower to lower his volume.  "Mmm, that burns me up.  He better hope I don't see him out there.  He'll wish the Chinese'd got him."

His reaction was strangely endearing.  And a bit arousing.  And oddly gratifying.  No, I didn't usually condone violence, but Reynolds' protectiveness had the peculiar side effect of making me feel cared for.  And if he _did_ happen upon Donner I couldn't say that the kid didn't have it coming.

I conjured up a smirk to mask the underlying vulnerability I feared was hiding in my emotions.  "Easy, tiger," I said instead, pointing at his sling.  "You've still got to let your shoulder heal.  No brawling for at least three months."

"But that'd be a special occasion," he pouted.

"I appreciate the gesture," I told him sincerely, "but I'd rather you not do any more damage to yourself.  Eventually you'll wear out your club card and they'll start sending you to a different MASH."

"No promises," he mumbled with a wry smile.  Then he sobered and his tone turned dangerous.  "An' speakin' of promises... didn't we have a talk where you were gonna tell me if he hurt you again?"

"Ah.  Um."  I squirmed under his pointed stare.  "I... I took care of it.  Myself.  I didn't want to worry you."

"Is there anythin' else you didn't want to worry me with?" he asked grimly.

"No."  I met his beautiful eyes and shook my head.

One side of his mouth curled up in a tiny smile and he nodded once.  "Alright.  I reckon I'll let it slide.  This time."  His tone was half teasing, half not.  "But from now on I wanna know these things.  Good or bad.  Don't worry 'bout worryin' me.  Just don't keep me in the dark again.  Please."  His manner had evolved from negotiating to pleading and my heart went out to him.  He really did care about me.

"Okay.  I won't," I vowed solemnly.

"Good."  He smiled.  "Glad we –" he had to pause for a yawn "– got that settled."

I returned his smile.  "I should let you get some rest before your real doctor shows up and boots me out," I told him fondly.

"No, I'd rather –" another yawn threatened to split his head open "– I'd rather talk to you.  I'm not sleepy, really."

I grinned.  He was adorable.  "It's a side effect of the morphine.  Take advantage of it.  Your body needs rest to heal.  I'll be back in later today, I promise."  I reached over and patted his knee before standing.

We exchanged smiles and he sent me a little wave before letting his head fall back to his pillow.

 

* * *

 

Two nights later I was giving the beautiful sergeant a thorough late night physical in the middle of a rainstorm.  We were out by the creek on a couple of blankets, soaked to the skin.  Somehow it was erotic instead of miserable.  The bright moonlight turned the raindrops silver as they beaded on Reynolds' long eyelashes, collected tantalizingly on his taut stomach, and streamed down his neck while I showered it with light kisses.  His skin tasted like rain and sex, simultaneously clean and refreshing and musky.  Memories from the last time I'd smelled that musky scent kept attempting to intrude on our romantic interlude and I kept determinedly fending off the incursions.

My groin throbbed, aching with desire and frightening me simultaneously.  I was terrified that if anything touched my erection I'd take a one-way trip back to the time Donner had me in the shower, but at the same time I wanted the man so much it hurt.  I trembled even as I brushed my lips along his exposed skin, letting my hands roam boldly over his body in defiance of everything that had conspired against us.  His reply was a series of gently passionate kisses and tender one-armed caresses that set everything in their path ablaze.  His reassuring serenity slowly but surely eroded my fears.

We'd been fooling around for a couple of nights – once by the minefield, once by the creek – and I still couldn't bring myself to go below the belt.  Reynolds was understanding.  I think that between the bruises I'd had, the sudden onset of tremors I experienced the times we'd started getting physical, and a few ill-timed flinches, he'd figured out what had happened.  He broke out the kid gloves for me and we were going slowly.  It was the most pleasurable therapy I could have ever imagined.

After this I didn't think I would have a problem with kissing anymore.

 

 

**_Finis._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
> I apologize (kind of) for not wrapping every aspect of this story up with a pretty little bow at the end. Possibly the thing I wanted to illustrate most with this fic is that in reality traumatic events such as this are not easily faced, overcome, or ever really fully healed. Recovery doesn't come easily and doesn't happen overnight, and there will always be a scar, if you know where to look. The triumph in a story like this is learning to cope and moving on with your life in a healthy way. I hope I didn't disappoint too many people.
> 
> (Insert shameless plug here:) Let me mention that reviews mean the world to me. If you want to make my day (heck, maybe even my week), please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> I really and truly appreciate the reviews I have received thus far, and would especially like to thank those of you who left feedback on multiple chapters. It's very rewarding to hear how each chapter has affected my readers. Once again, thanks so much!


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